He began slowly, grimacing half in dread, half in hope, “I'm sorry, I forgot...” and Éowyn's temper flared molten, then abruptly snapped as she gritted her teeth, hands clenching into fists.  She'd waited for hours last night in the garden with not so much as a word to tell her he would not come…and then he put off all day to apologize…no!  She felt her body grow taut, muscles knotting with fury.  Faramir had kept on, voice coming even more slowly as his eyes scanned hers, “About meeting you and…”

She realized with incredulity that he thought she would accept this belated apology as though she were spineless.  He thinks I will forgive so easily…  Perhaps she was not benevolent as he, but she’d been begged to come, had gathered herself to try and speak and to answer any of his questions, then was ignored without so much as a kindly warning.  I sat there for hours…!

Reaching out with both hands, palms flat to his chest, Éowyn shoved Faramir with all her strength, sending him sprawling to the dirty stones.  He stared up, open-mouthed as she glared, breathing fast as she struggled not to kick or strike at him for his idiocy.  You think I will forgive so easily?  I will not!  In the crowd around her, people quickly backed up, giving her the full space of the street in which to fume.  Feeling her anger crest, Éowyn hissed, “Keep your apology, it’s too late and I don’t want it!”  She spun on her heel and strode rapidly up the hill.  The awestruck throng of people parted, none of them eager to face her wrath. 

          “Éowyn!  Wait!”  The sound of him scrambling up, then Faramir's frantic voice only spurred her on.

         “Ná, Hordere!  Ná, léasere!” she picked up her skirts, muttering, “Assa, snaca, wyrm, fearh...” 

         Footsteps pounded on the stones.  Faramir stayed out of her reach as he kept up, his longer legs readily taking one stride to her two, “I'm not a snake, or a pig.”  He smiled guiltily.  “Maybe I am an ass, though.”

       “What?”  Éowyn halted abruptly, her skirts twisting; she yanked at them impatiently.

        He blinked, realized himself too close and took a step back.  “I said...”

        “No,” She shut her eyes briefly, struggling to keep her voice down and level, “How did you know what I said?”

         “Well...” Faramir shifted his feet, looking down at the ground before meeting her eyes.  “That was...that was what I was doing last night.  Somewhat.”

Éowyn folded her arms and said slowly, “You learned the words for snake, pig and ass in Rohirric, nyten léasere?”

        He was defensive.  “Others too.”

        “Well, I'm quite impressed, Hordere.”

Faramir winced at her sarcasm and looked around them as onlookers gathered curiously, ready for entertainment, “Can we, can we do this some place else?”

          “Do what, what is this?”  Her anger wasn’t abating.

         He stared at her, sheepish again.  “This is…an apology?”

         “Cifesboren! “  Éowyn swore at him in her outrage, completely lapsing into Rohirric.  “Ác ádung?  Ác ádung?”

          “What?”

She made a face of sorrow, “Oh, I suppose you didn’t learn that?”

Faramir winced.  “No, I didn’t.”

Éowyn replied archly, coldly, “Seo is toss atol, Faramir, is hit ná?”

“How am I supposed to answer when I don't know what are you saying?”  Faramir threw his hands up in exasperation.  “At least speak the Common Tongue when you insult me!”

           “I wasn’t insulting you yet!  You will know when I…”

            “What is this?”  A familiar voice interrupted loudly and Éowyn turned, angered at the interference.  A rather shocked Aragorn looked back and forth between them.  Behind him, Gandalf leaned on his staff. 

            “I would ask much the same thing myself.”  Faramir colored under the wizard's calm gaze.  Éowyn folded her arms tightly across her middle, refusing to crumple under the weight of Gandalf's eyes.  She was not in the wrong.  “Faramir is correct.  You should take this to a more private setting.”

            “I have a place in mind.”  Aragorn commanded firmly, in a tone that would brook no arguments, “Come.” 

“Ow!  Ow!  Stop it!”  Faramir yelped as he nearly fell backwards, tripping over a chair as he fled and sending it crashing.  Luckily he managed to keep to his feet, perhaps sensing Éowyn would just as gladly kick him as slam her fists into the nearest body part: chest, arm or stomach.  She smiled grimly as he tried to twist away, he can't protect everything at once.  He'd eluded her ever since Aragorn had left.  She’d not spoken, as he’d clearly expected, already flinching but instead simply came for him with hands raised to release her fury in a far more satisfying way than shouting.  Faramir had briefly shielded himself around a large, dust-streaked table, but she'd outrun him to the door and caught him without any convenient shelter, trapping him in a corner at her mercy.   

            “Do punch you smack know slap how punch long smack I waited?”

          “No and stop it!”  He grabbed her wrists, realizing his mistake an instant later when Éowyn stepped forward and used his grip to give herself enough leverage to ram her knee squarely into his gut.  He tried to evade her, then got pinned between her knee and the wall; the air whooshed out of him and Faramir sank to the floor, kneeling as he wheezed and gasped.  He turned his face to her pleadingly, gasping, “T-that hurt!” 

           Éowyn glared down.  “Be grateful, I could have aimed lower.”  She paced as he coughed, avoiding the dusty chairs, barrels and tables.  Faramir had repeatedly tried using them as barriers, but she'd snared him every time.  Waiting while he'd caught his breath, Éowyn looked disgustedly around herself.  They were in what looked like an ancient storage room.

           “Do I dare get up?” When he spoke again, Faramir’s voice was raspy; he’d inhaled the dust stirred from his fall.  It caked his legs and lower arm, showing starkly grey and beige-brown against the sable of his surcoat and trousers.

           “No, I like you there.  Stay.”  Éowyn brushed the thick dust from off of one of the nearest chairs and sat in it, impatiently jerking her dress into place.  She hated the gowns she’d been given and the thick masses of skirts only added to her furor.  “ Faramir, dearest,” She smiled tightly, voice steely with anger, “Explain to me why you left me with not so much as a word, in a city full of people serving you, to sit in the garden for hours last night?”

            He grimaced.  “I said I was sorry...”

           “Yes, and you also said you forgot.”

           He grimaced again, beginning to stand.  “I did.”

 Éowyn looked at him darkly.  “It is wonderful to know I mean so much that you cannot even remember a promise for half a day.” 

He made a face, “I said I was sorry and if you would allow me, I would think of a way to make it up to you…” She watched him get his legs under himself.  He was almost up.  Éowyn waited until the perfect moment when he was poised precariously on both legs and his fingertips, then, coolly, she stretched out and kicked him in the shin.  Off-balance, Faramir went down again and flopped back in surrender.  “Oh, fine!”

She smiled.  This was actually kind of amusing.  Unlike Éomer, or even Théodred, Faramir didn't fight back.  Despite the fact that her anger was slowly lessening, she snapped, “I told you to stay.”

          He turned his head to look at her wearily and replied in what she thought of a horrible attempt to speak in her tongue; the words were correct, but the accent was terribly mangled.  “Gea, min Ides.”

          Before she could think of exactly how she objected to it, beyond aesthetic means, she blurted, “Stop that!”

          “Why?”  He twisted his head to look at her, propping himself up on his elbows.  Puffs and messy particles of dust clung to his dark hair.

          She frowned, unsure.  “Because.”

         “Why?”

         Éowyn gritted her teeth.  “Because I said so.”  He looked skeptical and about to challenge her, so Éowyn added tightly, “I thought you were supposed to be apologizing.”

            Mimicking her tone, Faramir replied, “I tried, but you kept hitting me.”

            “Well, I'm not hitting you now.”

            He sighed deeply.  She waited.  “I'm sorry.”  Éowyn looked down at him lying obediently on the dusty and surely uncomfortable floor and she wavered.  But he soon continued, “I forgot after the Council when Halorl invited me to go with him and,” He looked at her with a hopeful smile, “You know, he was going to teach me some Rohirric, and…” Faramir trailed off, lacing his hands and resting them on his stomach.

            “And?”

            “And I ended up drunk, wandering the streets until almost morning, then sleeping all day.”  Faramir hurriedly finished, “Sorry.”

            Éowyn rolled her eyes to the ceiling.  She had to admit that he'd started off with the right idea.  “That was what you were doing?”

            “Yes.”

             She shook her head and sighed.  “You are a ass.  A foolish one.”

He heard her tone and grinned.  “Oh, most assuredly.”

         “That doesn't mean I forgive you.”

         “Then what can I do, my esteemed Lady?”  He rolled to his side, tracing patterns in the dust with one finger as he looked up at her expectantly.  Inwardly Éowyn refused to be swayed by Faramir's cheerful grin, but she already knew it was a losing battle as he looked up at her just like a boy released from some dreadful punishment and now allowed to go out and play.   

            “Oh, get up already, Faramir.”  She tried to keep her tone of annoyance.

            He started to spring up, then froze, “You're not going to knock me down again?”

“No.”  Éowyn smiled faintly.  She watched as he got up, his eyes on her all the while.  Her curiosity overcame her, making her ask, “Why didn't you fight back when I hit you?”

            “What?”  Faramir appeared completely startled by this.

            “Fight back.”

            “Oh, I can't do that.”  He laughed loudly at the very notion, pausing in brushing himself off to smile at her.  “Why would I do that?”

            “Why not?”

            “You're...you're a woman, a Lady.  I can't raise my hand against you.”  He frowned, thinking.  “Why?  Whom do you fight with?”

            “Did.  Éomer, sometimes, mainly when we were younger.”

            “Ah,” Faramir's grinned widened as he beat at his trousers; dust flew.  “I bet you beat him.”

            “Sometimes.  He usually cheated.”  At Faramir's curious look she elaborated, “He was a hair-puller.”  Faramir laughed.  The dust on the floor had transferred to his trousers; as he brushed them, it flew into the air.  Her nose wrinkled, itching and she rubbed it furiously.  For all his slapping and brushing, he was still covered in dust as he walked towards her.  She feigned repugnance, really more concerned about dirtying her gown.  “Don't you touch me.  You're filthy.”

            “True, but you're the one who pushed me down.”  To Éowyn's confusion, he didn't directly approach, but instead carefully walked around her chair, giving her plenty of space.

            “What are you doing?”  She turned her head to look at him, a bit of unease wrapping around her heart that she could not see him.

            Faramir was smiling as he dipped his brow in acknowledgment.  “Respectfully staying out of your range, my Lady.”

            She turned to face ahead again, declaring, “Coward.”

            He chuckled.  “No, it's merely that I would eventually like to sire children and I don't trust you not to kick me.”  She heard his smile and she blushed.  “I believe you said you could have aimed lower.”  Éowyn couldn't think of any response, so she turned away still further, hiding her burning face in her hair.  The slow, steady beat of Faramir's steps on the floor came closer, then stopped directly behind her.  Her skin tingled as she wondered what he was doing. 

           “Since we agree I've been foolish...how do you want me to make it up to you, my dearest?”  He left off the formality when he finally spoke and his voice was a warm murmur as he leaned down and rested his palms on chair's arms.  She jumped.  He was much nearer than she'd thought, his breath warming her ear.  Éowyn tilted her head up to look at him and he whispered softly, lips hovering just over her brow, “I also learned something interesting—þeos wif is faegere.”  He kissed her hair as she winced a little; his accent was horribly off.

            “Herigend...flatterer.”  She managed to get a reply through her tightening throat.  What is he doing?  He was terribly near; she could feel the warmth of his body, the way the chair shifted as he put his weight on the arms.

            “Another word.  Hmm, I seem to remember asking you for lessons.”  She could hear his smile again.  He was too close.  Éowyn could feel his smoothly muscled arms against her shoulders even through her dress and his surcoat, the broad expanse of his front pressed against the back of her chair.  Faramir was barely touching her, yet she had the uncontrollable sensation of being smothered.  It increased as he shifted to her left and crouched lower, his chest pressing her shoulder.

“Faramir...” She took a breath, then tilted her head up to ask him to move, to give her room and he kissed her.  Like all the kisses before, this one began light, just the simple press of lips, but instead of ending it as she had grown used to, he lingered.  Almost immediately Éowyn felt his fingers move to firmly cup her chin as he probed gently with his tongue, encouraging her to respond in kind.  She resisted and he insisted, to her surprise, so that when she gasped for a breath, he slipped it into her mouth. 

For an instant she was still, allowing him this new, peculiar privilege; but he was eager, passionate, and far too intimate.  Éowyn could taste him, feel the slickness of his mouth, the movements of his tongue to her own paralyzed one and how he urged her to kiss him in return.  He stepped to her side, nearly in front of her and she realized with a jolt of alarm that if he took another stride there would be nothing she could do, nowhere for her to go.  I would be at his mercy…  Uncontrollable claustrophobia rose, making her heart beat against her ribs as a wild bird, once trapped, did the bars of a cage.  Unable to ignore her growing anxiety and unable to bear it, she twisted in the seat, felt how confined she was, and her control broke.  I can’t move, I can’t…  

            “Stop!”  Gasping, cold with shame and fright, partly of him, of what he might do now that she’d rejected him, Éowyn pushed him back and rose out of her chair, desperate for space.

            “What is it?”  Faramir straightened, frowning, but kept his place as she moved away. 

Éowyn muttered, “Nothing.”  She could hear her own quick breathing, her strain in her harsh voice, the lie.

He was silent for almost an entire minute, watching as she stood, arms folded, hands cupping her elbows, head turned away.  Faramir’s words came slow and so terribly gently that her heart ached in knowing she’d hurt him.  “Tell me, what is it that I do that is so wrong?”  He took a stride in her direction and his voice softened even more, once again formal, “Why do you shrink from me, my Lady?”

            “I…” Tears welled; Éowyn had no answer, or at least none she was ready to give.  He took another step around the chair.  She could take no more when he asked sorrowfully, barely audible with dread of her answer,

         “Do you not care for me to touch you?” 

She wanted to reply with scorn for the very notion, to tell him no, to laugh and embrace him and do anything to erase the guilt and sadness on his face.  It is not your fault…  Éowyn felt the pressure grow with her silence; it was crushing and she had to get out now, to flee and escape his steady, mournful gaze.  She turned her back on him, walking quickly to the door. 

“Éowyn?”  Faramir’s voice rose in alarm as she grabbed the doorknob, twisted and pulled back, opening the door to a now dark hallway well lit with torches.  She didn't answer him as she went into the hall and stopped there, momentarily confused by the darkness.  Is it so late already?  They must have missed the evening meal.  Éowyn looked back and forth and realized she didn’t know which way to go to return to the Houses.  Debating, she hesitated.

It was enough time for Faramir to catch her arm.  She jumped and stiffened and he immediately loosened his grip, sliding his hand down to encircle her wrist.  Guilty, she turned her head away from his questioning gaze.  “Will you come with me at least?”  He still sounded very distressed.  Her heart burned with the weight of the grief she caused him.

            Wretched, knowing herself defeated and unable to meet his eyes, she asked the dust-smeared White Tree on his chest, “Where?”

            He sighed and released her entirely.  “The kitchens.  I'm hungry, and surely you must be.”  Faramir paused, and then vowed in the gentlest voice, “I promise to do nothing.  You have my word.”

Éowyn hugged herself tightly, miserable with shame; surely he did not deserve this.  Avoiding his eyes, she directed her reply to the White Tree again, whispering, “Yes, I will come.”

He led her down older, less lit and winding passageways, avoiding the more crowded corridors.  His hand came to hold hers, almost, she thought, to make sure she was truly coming with him.  Faramir said nothing to her as they walked, turning at what seemed to be random, once murmuring under his breath as he counted doors.  Éowyn followed silently, mind stirring nervously, feeling jumbled up and confused inside.  She tried not to think.

The torches, few and far between, flickered and sparked in the constant wind.  It has grown chill…  Éowyn shivered, wishing she'd worn a shawl or at least a thicker dress.  It had been much warmer this morning, perhaps, she speculated, it would rain tonight.  Stretching out her free hand, she brushed the corridor wall—it was cool, the stone losing its heat as the night fell.  Her thoughts occupied, she almost bumped into him when he stopped, mesmerized by the symmetry of the stonework.  Faramir said nothing; he just released her hand and held the heavy wooden door open for her to enter. 

Head ducked, Éowyn went into the room, noticing that it was warm, much nicer than out in the halls and she shivered at the temperature change, goose bumps rising on her arms.  He was behind her; the door thudded shut and she jumped a little at the sound.  Faramir’s voice was soft, “It’s all right.”  Éowyn rubbed her hands over her shoulders, chafing them as she nodded, feeling she had to explain,

“The noise…”  

“Sit.  Please.”  Faramir gestured to a pair of chairs at one end of the huge, high table that stood in the center of the room.  These were the servant's kitchens, she guessed; empty now as everyone was out serving the evening meal in the dining halls, or waiting at the High King's tables. 

Following his lead, she perched carefully on the chair, hands gripping the seat, wrapping her legs around it for balance; it was so tall her feet swung a few inches off of the floor.  The big, long table in front of her was littered with dirty trays and bowls, whisks and stirrers, knives, and thick carving boards.  Faramir left her for a few minutes, and returned with a large pitcher of some liquid and two cups.  Éowyn watched as he poked around through cupboards and pantries, eventually rewarded with some bread, cheese, and a few apples.  He brought these offerings to the table on a clean tray, positioning it between them as he sat beside her.

           “Thank you.”  Feeling her shame burn her again, Éowyn murmured her gratitude as he passed her share over.  She was very hungry; utterly unable to remember eating much besides the piece of toast Pippin had been kind enough to share that morning.

          “You're welcome, my Lady.”  Faramir answered and his voice was just as subdued as hers was, his manner formal.  Éowyn took a bite of bread, wishing she had butter or jam, but dared not mention it in case he felt obliged to fetch it for her.  Her eyes roamed over the abandoned dishes lying on the table, wondering what had been served.  She was aware that he'd pulled his chair further away from her when he'd sat, and she didn't know if she was saddened or grateful for what was an obvious attempt at making her more comfortable.  She swung her feet, gently bumping them against the chair legs as she picked up a piece of the cheese.  It wasn't as though she wanted him to avoid her, just...  Éowyn pushed the troubling thoughts out of her mind, concentrating on her food.

            It was not long before she'd finished everything but the apple; Éowyn ate it in silence, feeling increasingly aware of the crunching.  Faramir had finished his own meal before her and sat sipping from his cup.  He wasn’t looking to her, instead staring ahead of himself, obviously deep in thought.

          “I'm sorry.”  She said it suddenly, surprising herself and him. 

          “What for?”

          “For pushing you.”  Éowyn forced herself to meet his eyes.  They were saddened, but patient.

“You shouldn't be.”  Faramir blinked then frowned down at the tabletop.  “If you don't wish me to...do that, then you should say so.”  Abruptly, he met her gaze; his face was intense and she felt ill to see that pain lurked in his noble, handsome features as he waited for her answer.  “Do you not...want me to touch you?  It seems to me that…every time I do, I displease you so greatly you retreat from me like I were a villain.” 

Éowyn had no idea what to say and strongly suspected she didn't really know what she wanted.  Yes, she enjoyed him touching her, but not like that or really, not like that yet?  That sounded closer to how she felt. 

She opened her mouth, but he interrupted.  “Tell me what I'm doing wrong.  Please, I don't wish to cause you further distress, my Lady.”  Faramir took a deep breath, “I beg you, speak.”

He was terribly serious, obviously trying to remain calm and composed.  Éowyn bit her lip, fiddling with her cup.  She was barely audible, “I wouldn't say wrong...”

            “But you don't like it.” 

           “Yes, no…” Compressing her lips over a moan of frustration, she looked away.  “I don't know, Faramir.”

           “You can tell me what it is…you may tell me anything.”  He was pleading now.  Faramir lowered his voice to say softly.  “I assure you, any truths could not hurt me more.”  A hot lump formed in Éowyn's throat, choking her.  She tried to swallow.  He reached over and touched her hand, but seemed to stop himself and did not quite take it.  “You can trust me, Éowyn.”

           Her chest tightened until she felt like her skin would burst.  She closed her eyes, thinking of his kindness, his gentleness, that he’d never given her a reason not to trust…  Oh, but what of tomorrow?  What of then?  What if…even he was not so bad in the beginning…  At the thought of Gríma her hands pressed flat to the table, white-knuckled.  It is madness to compare them!  She was ashamed to whisper, “Can I?”  Éowyn blurted more loudly, “How do I know…?”  She looked up, accidentally meeting his eyes.  It was a mistake; they were stricken, aggrieved.  He was obviously wounded by her question. 

           “Of course you can trust me.”  Faramir spoke with a visible effort at restraint.  Éowyn looked at their hands; his fingers gently intertwined with hers, his thumb rubbing the tops of her knuckles.  It was soothing, pleasantly so.  She raised her head as he said carefully, “Is there any way that I could prove it to you, my Lady?”

           “I don't know, I wish…I wish I did.  I’m sorry, Faramir.  V-very sorry…” She felt miserable, near to sobs of guilt and grief.  They sat quietly as she concentrated on breathing and not weeping; the only sound was the faint hiss and rustle of coals in the ovens.  Faramir's hands cupped hers.  They were warm and lightly callused, much larger than hers were and she wanted to run her fingers over them, explore them, but did not dare.

            “Come with me?”  Faramir’s expression turned thoughtful as he stood.

            “Where?”

He smiled sadly, looking down.  “Trust me?”  Éowyn nodded, pained, and she slid off the chair, her hands still clasped in his.  He brought them to his lips and paused briefly.  “Is this all right?”

             “Yes.”  Éowyn gave a small, pitiful laugh.  He kissed the backs of her hands and she smiled weakly.

             “Good.”  He smiled back and let go, soon leading her back out into the corridor.  They walked for a long while, entering the highest levels and moving up a wide street she’d not seen, ever gaining nearer to the quarters of the Steward and the King's House.  They saw few people in the streets, mostly soldiers who nodded respectfully.  Two small children raced by in the growing gloom, narrowly missing them.  They were laughing and shouting as they ran, dodging back and forth, their feet pounding on the stone.  Éowyn had to pull up short to avoid bumping into him again as Faramir lingered in the street to watch them, a strange expression on his face.  She studied him; it was almost as though he'd just remembered something.  He glanced at her before continuing but did not speak.   

           When they turned into the Steward's quarters, Éowyn could guess where they were going, but not why.  She only hoped Faramir would have a fire in his rooms; the air was becoming increasingly chill, winds blowing harder and colder as they climbed the hill.  She tilted her head up before she passed under the arched roof and under the weight of all that stone, and felt a drop of rain gently splash on her cheek.  The stars were gone, blanketed under deep clouds.   

            “My Lord, are you retiring?”  A servant bowed as they approached.  Éowyn flushed, turning away under her mildly inquisitive gaze.  “If you wish I will start a fire for you and the Lady.”

             “That will be fine.”  Faramir looked unperturbed by the woman's curiosity.  Éowyn supposed that in a city this large, he was used to people marking his comings and goings.  It would certainly be difficult to find someone. 

            As he gestured, Éowyn walked through the thick door, noticing that it was strong and heavily reinforced.  She tried to push away the nervousness of being alone with him in his room but did not succeed until the maid had lit the fire and some candles, then left.  The light lessened her feeling of vulnerability somewhat; she guessed it was born of not being unable to see around her.  Éowyn wanted no shadows, no darkness, there were too many horrible things waiting to come to her memory.  He interrupted her thoughts, “Would you mind waiting?  There's something I would like to show you.”

          Hastily, she stammered, “No that’s…that’s fine.”

           “Good.”  Faramir rewarded her with a smile before he passed by her into his inner chambers.  Left alone, she wandered curiously.  Éowyn smiled, mildly disgusted; Faramir's room was in a state of terrible messiness. 

          The shutters over the windows were closed tight, yet they flapped in the rising wind.  Éowyn jumped at a particularly loud bump.  There was a long, low couch on the left side of the room, one of its pillows lying on the floor next to a rug whose edges were curling up.  A dark cloak with dried mud still clinging to the bottom was draped over the back of the couch and a pair of filthy boots lay forgotten at the end.  A quiver with a few arrows still in it sat in the middle, carefully propped up with the bow unstrung at its side—the weapons alone looked cared for or placed with any forethought.    

             Books overlapped each other on his desk, completely obscuring the surface and hanging precariously over the sides.  She picked one up and flipped through it; it was surprisingly heavy and written in some language she did not know, so she soon put it down in favor of another.  This one was so huge Éowyn could barely hold it.  Bracing it against her stomach, she opened its leather covers and discovered a book of clever illustrations.  Men and beasts, swords and other weapons were finely drawn and colored, surrounded again with words in that other language.  She carefully replaced it, trying not to upset the delicate balance Faramir had made.  She smiled again, wondering why he didn't just stack them sensibly.  The books looked as though he'd absentmindedly set them down at different times, one on top of the other and most were dusty, opened with still more books balanced on their pages.  Two of the desk drawers were wide open and the nearest was crammed chaotically full of papers.  Éowyn glanced into the other noting several inkwells whose ink had long dried and cracked and dust-caked pens.  

        He came to her side before she knew it and she jumped.  Éowyn smiled nervously and saw what he had with him.  “What is that?”

Faramir was solemn.  “The thing I wanted to show you.”

***

Striding down the hall with Éomer in tow, Aragorn hesitated outside the door.  He turned, frowning.  “I do not hear anything.”

         Éomer sighed, “So?”

            “She was being quite loud...” Bemused, Éomer sent a sharply defensive glare in his direction.  Aragorn backtracked, saying more properly.  “Ah, energetic in her displeasure before.”

             He smiled to himself.  That sounded like his sister.  “And?”

            “Well, you know her best, but...”

            Rolling his eyes, Éomer pushed the door open, hoping to find them within.  He and his sister were to ride back to Edoras in a week and he wanted to discuss the terms of her dowry with Faramir.  In light of the chaos that certainly awaited him in Edoras, he'd decided to get the discussion over with and, Éomer thought, undoubtedly, Faramir would rather spend Éowyn's last days unencumbered with such worries.  And it leaves me free to…he smiled to himself, pursue his offended girl.

              But the room was empty and he groaned.  “They're not here.”

              “No?”

              “No.  Are you sure this is the room…wait.”  Growing amused again, Éomer peered into the large, abandoned room where Aragorn had sequestered his sister and Faramir.  He grinned to himself, eyeing the tracks upon the floor, all easily outlined in the thick, grey dust.  Faramir's larger prints were erratic, circling the old furniture, continually crossed and recrossed by his sister's smaller ones.  Remembering past scoldings he'd survived, Éomer chuckled.  “Look at this and tell me what you see.”

Aragorn obediently stepped into the doorway, beginning to smile as he crouched over the tracks and deciphered them.  “He fled.  Repeatedly.”  He pointed, “But see that?  She caught him there.”

          “It looks like she knocked him down.”  Éomer laughed at the great, telling spot of cleared and smeared dust on the floor.

          “It appears that way.”  Aragorn laughed too, then became serious again.  “Where could they have gone?  Perhaps the Hall?”  He frowned, hovering in the doorway, about to reenter the corridor. 

             Éomer followed, “I think we would have seen them.”

            The King argued, “There are many passages they could have taken.”

Éomer heaved a tired sigh as he closed the door.  He'd spent the afternoon wandering the City, trying to discern which type of goods Faramir would best appreciate and trying not to think of his girl with chocolate hair and eyes.  He’d not met her again, to his simultaneous relief and disappointment.  She was too bold, too arrogant, too…

I have more important things to think about than a girl with chocolate hair…  He smiled faintly and concentrated again.  Normally in Rohan land, gold or horses were exchanged, along with lesser animals and valuables.  However, he was not in his own land, and a gift of property hundreds of miles away would not benefit Faramir or his fortunes any. 

But there was one thing I could give…  Éomer had seen the stables and had already increased the horses he had in mind to gift Aragorn with in both numbers and quality.  Minas Tirith's mounted force was dreadfully pathetic.  He had snorted in disdain, eyeing the miserable and ill-bred creatures standing in their stalls; they were barely fit to be called horses, much less fine chargers.  Éomer had spent two hours visiting every stable, astonished to discover that half an éored of rough, untried boys could have demolished the City's mounted defenses in minutes.  It was disgraceful and lucky that the City’s soldiers on foot were so efficient and well trained.

Noting that the ribs of many otherwise healthy animals were beginning to show, Éomer was beginning to worry over the murmurs of food shortages.  Already this afternoon he'd sent the wholly unhurt riders and horses back to Edoras or their posts in the Riddermark with orders to gather surplus goods and stock and send it immediately to the relief of Minas Tirith.  The dismissal of his healthy folk and horses would take some of the strain off of the City, but several thousand extra persons and animals of his country still remained.  Estimating roughly a month for the supplies to arrive, Éomer hoped the City's stores would hold out that long.  He grimaced.  Or else I shall have to spare horses to ride somewhere to beg…those things they call mounts would not make the journey… 

And if the stores did not hold?  They are not even fit for eating…  He shuddered.  The eating of horseflesh was something utterly inconsiderable unless one was close to death; it would be akin to eating the flesh of his dearest and most helpless of family.  Children, babes, innocent maids…he felt nauseous and tried to think of other possible sources of food.

          “Have your farmers begun to send in the first lot of spring crops yet?”  They were retracing their steps to the King's table, boots clunking loudly, Aragorn's cloak swishing as it brushed the floor.  Éomer frowned, thinking, his fingers absently playing with a loose thread on his sleeve.  It was spring, but late enough; surely something would have ripened by now.  At least Gondor's stock animals: cattle, pigs, goats and fowl could provide fresh meat, and there was the river Anduin for fish, birds and even turtles if it got that desperate. 

         “That is what I wanted to discuss with Faramir.  I need to know what and how much to expect if I’m to make any decisions.”  Aragorn sounded frustrated.  “He may not have been next in line for the Stewardship, but surely he knows about such things.”  He sounded weary, “And all I can think of is...”

          “What?”

          “I would not feel right in entering Denethor's office without permission.  I think it would be improper...even distress Faramir.”  He sighed, “Although…undoubtedly the information I need is in there.  Yet...”

          “I agree.”  Éomer interrupted, nodding; he might not like the Steward, but he would have been angered if another had entered Théoden’s chambers without his permission.  “It would be improper to do such a thing.”

         “So until I find him and pry him away from your sister...”

           “Pry him away?”  Éomer's grinned, feeling a bit of protective nervousness rise.  He forced it away to jest, “What makes you so sure he did not run away?”

          “I never considered that.”  Aragorn looked at him, startled, and laughed. 

         “You saw that room—my Éowyn beat your Steward quite handily.”  Éomer's grin widened as his nerves quieted.  “Believe me, he will not have it easy.  She is neither docile nor compliant, and the title of wife will not make her so.”

           “No?”  Aragorn teased.

         “Not at all.”  He played along.  “In fact, there was one incident when she was eleven and I had gotten a new sword and,” Éomer snickered, “I had to test it for sharpness of course...”

          “But of course.”  Aragorn shook his head.  “I can't even imagine what you did.”

         “Well, she was wearing her hair in two braids that day and,” He interrupted himself, grinning, “She used to be quite vain about her hair, drove me mad...”

           “You didn't!  How did you live this long, Éomer?  That woman struck down that foul winged beast in a single blow!”

          “I'm bigger, heavier than she—it makes me harder to kill in general.  Do you want to hear this or not?”

         Aragorn smiled, “Go on.  Go on.”

        “Well, I decided, since I'd cut one off already...” Éomer's voice was immediately punctuated by the King's guffaws as they rounded the corner. 

***

“Who is he?”  Thinking she could guess, but not willing to do so in case she erred, Éowyn held the framed drawing he'd handed her with care.  It was on a great sheet of vellum, impressed with a stylus, the indentions shaded with soot or some dark chalk, beautifully done.  The man, so like to Faramir’s features that it was startling, was looking up and grinning self-consciously in a moment of surprise, long hair hanging in his eyes.  Obviously a work of love, it was so real the drawing could have almost been the reflection of some mirror, the man standing over her shoulder. 

            “He was...” Faramir swallowed and she heard his throat click.  “My brother Boromir.  I did this five years ago, when we were in the City together for Yáviérë…” At her blank expression he elaborated, “The harvest feast.  I've kept it ever since.” 

            She answered with slow care, “I can see why.  This is very lovely.”

           “Thank you.”  Faramir accepted the compliment quietly and with obvious pleasure.

             “You resemble him very much.”  She spoke gently again, not wanting to hurt him.  At least in any way I already haven’t…  Éowyn flinched.

            “I know.”  He hesitated, “It is both a comfort and a great pain as I’ve passed a mirror and caught my heart lifting…” Faramir hesitated again before adding, “I wished to show it to you because I believe the only way you will trust me is to know about me.”  Painfully and with obvious effort, he finished as she looked up again from the picture, “Boromir was my closest friend and my one confidant.”  She heard the respect in his voice, “He was the only person I could ever be sure about, the greatest person in my life.”  Faramir laughed softly, “My hero, if you wish the truth.”

            Éowyn took one last look at the picture, admiring it and then handed it back to him. Carefully, Faramir put it on his desk on top of a well-balanced book.  She watched the way he touched the frame, fingers almost caressing and remembered how hard it had been losing Théodred.  He'd been as an older brother to both her and Éomer. 

Her eyes stung.  How long had it been the three of them together?  They'd ridden miles unnumbered, laughed and played pranks, sat up late telling each other tales and planning how Théodred would manage his growing responsibilities to the Mark each year.  She recalled sitting silent in his room the night he'd died, trembling, refusing to weep and Éomer finding her.  Hugging her so tightly it felt as though he'd break her ribs, his tears had fallen then, hidden in the fabric of her gown.  Théodred, he'd tried to comfort her, had died like a man, in battle and had gone to their forefathers with honor.  Éowyn's mouth twisted in what could have been a smile.  She'd tried that and failed.  Gathering her courage, she asked, “Faramir?”

“Yes, my Lady?”  His voice was still sad as he gazed at her, but he answered as courteously and composedly as ever.

            “Would it bother you to tell me about your brother?”  Éowyn straightened, gathering her courage.  She would soon need it.  “If you tell me some about Boromir, I...I will answer anything you wish to ask me in return.”  He did not respond right away, as she'd thought he would.  Instead, his eyes searched hers for several seconds.

            “I don't think that is fair.”  Startled, she wondered if he'd guessed her mind.  “I would share freely, but…” He frowned, his grey eyes holding hers.  “Clearly, it troubles you to do the same, Éowyn.” Faramir took a step towards her, “I don’t wish to trouble you more than I do already…” He murmured, brow creased fretfully, “I don’t know what it is that I do wrong.”

            “I…I will be all right.  I wish to know about him and it is all I can offer in trade for stirring your painful memories.”  She replied simply enough, but betrayed her nervousness with the twisting of her hands.

            Faramir was serious.  “If you want to...then I accept.”

            She almost smiled; his concern was bordering on irksome.  “I do.”

            “Very well.  Now.”  He stopped and as he took in his room, Faramir's voice became embarrassed.  “Allow me to clear you a space in which to sit, my Lady.”

            This time Éowyn did smile.  “Yes, please do.”

   His step quick and eager, Faramir soon disappeared into his bedroom with his muddy cloak and quiver, a few arrows softly rattling, leaving only his bow on the couch.  Alone and curious, she touched it, fingers sliding easily on the polished surface.  It was taller than she was and well worn, but she could still make out faint engravings up and down its considerable span.  Mainly leaves and the graceful curves of branches and vines, it was well carved, as the twisting branches were thick in comparison to the mere pen strokes of the delicate vines.  Peering closely, she found tiny buds here and there among the small leaves; it was a nobleman’s bow, made with care and an eye for detail.

  She traced the carvings with her fingertips, gently stroking the length of the smooth wood.  There was a faint motion to her side and she jumped guiltily when she noticed him in the doorway, gazing at her intently.  Éowyn flushed deep red when she realized what she'd been doing and what it might look like.  

        “You may touch it.”  He reassured her immediately, his voice low.  Then Faramir paused.  “This,” She quickly backed away as he approached, pretending to give him room so that he could lift the bow.  He gave her a slow, direct smile, “Has been my only companion for far too many nights.”  Éowyn dropped her eyes to the floor, unnerved by his intimate tone and forcefully reminded that she was alone with him.  However, he did nothing but disappear into the bedroom again and, perverse curiosity getting the better of her timidness, she followed him to the doorway.  I can trust him…

Here, too, were books of all sizes liberally scattered around the room, but mostly on a small table by the bed.  She saw Faramir did have a rather large bookcase, but it was comically crammed with books and loose papers.  Éowyn smiled, seeing old, childish scrawls of things that could have been dogs or skinny horses shelved with newer sheets bearing the marks of a quick, easy hand.  A few sketches sat on top: a bird perched on a limb, a black and white cat, a man standing in the uniform of the Guard and an unfinished drawing of a woman that piqued her curiosity.  Taking one silent step into the room she could see he'd quite annoyingly finished everything but the face, making it totally impossible to tell whom the woman was.  Not quite so vain as to believe it was she, Éowyn gave up after a few moments of squinting, turning her gaze to the rest of his bedroom.

Also liberally scattered were burnt down candles with dried wax of multiple shades splattering their bronze candleholders; they decorated any and all horizontal surfaces, including the covers of a few unfortunate books.  He’s lucky that he’s not begun a fire…  A great wooden chest was open in the far corner, full of unfolded and wrinkled clothing; another beside it was closed.  Faramir had tossed the muddy cloak to pile next to the door; the placement of his quiver showed slightly more care, it was resting upright, propped against the wall.  She watched him hang his bow, carefully balancing it so it would not drop from a pair of hooks.  His muscles flexed easily, their movements outlined under smooth leather back of his surcoat.  She quickly glanced away.   

Faramir's bed looked comfortable and inviting with rumpled sheets, thick pillows and a great heap of soft furs that begged to be touched.  Éowyn shot a wary look towards him, but his back was still turned, so she gave in and took the few steps that brought her to the foot of the bed.  The sleek pelts were utterly divine under her hands as she smoothed them.  She imagined lying on them, the furs shifting velvety soft against her bare skin...and suddenly she became aware Faramir was watching her.  His grey eyes moved and Éowyn tensed; she could feel his gaze like a physical pressure firmly touching her body, from her hand, pale against the dark furs, up her arm... 

“They are soft, are they not?”  He smiled and she realized belatedly that this would be their marriage bed barring any change.

Truthfully, hesitantly, she nodded.  “Yes.” 

Faramir smiled again, saying in a mixture of cheek and formality, “The hide is not too rough for your skin, my Lady?  I don’t want to chafe you…” He was teasing her, his voice and face all but begging her to relax and jest in kind.  She swallowed, but had no reply.  Coloring under his warm gaze, she jerked her hand back from his bed and swiftly exited his bedroom.

She was standing nervously in the center of his room when he entered.  He gestured to the couch.  “Sit?” 

        She folded her skirts beneath her, sitting at the far end.  Faramir sat near, but not too near, his long legs sprawling.  After a few moments of stillness, he sighed.  Faramir wasn't looking at her when he began, but rather his eyes were far away, focused on something or someone else. “My first memory was not of Boromir, but all my favorites have been...” He stopped and fell silent.

      “Go on.”  Éowyn scooted closer as he began again; his voice was so soft that she could barely hear it, his eyes unfocused, one hand tracing circles on the cushions between them. 

        “I hardly remember anything of my mother.  She died when I was very small.  Just...she played with me, held me.  Her eyes shone with love.  I remember she sang to me, mostly sad songs of the Sea.  I...I've been told Boromir looked much like her.  Perhaps that's why I loved him so when I was a child.  Perhaps that's why my father loved him.”  He sighed, “Boromir took care of me, really.  He was always there, even when he wasn't.  He taught me many things of a warrior’s craft, many tricks that he learned the hard way in the field.  I cannot count the number of times he’s saved my life.”  He smiled, “The first was terribly early.

The winds were strong that day and I was no more than a boy of seven...it pulled me off my feet near the ledge...I was too young to have the sense to let go, but he caught me just in time.  I lost two teeth when I hit the wall, but if he hadn't had grabbed my legs I might've flipped over it and lost much more.”  Éowyn smiled.  Faramir continued, his voice sobering, “He was the one who encouraged me to fight in Ithilien.  He said it was logical, that I had a better eye for tracking, and I was a better archer than he, but,” Faramir looked down at his boots.  “I think he wanted me to be there because it was safer than Osgiliath, safer in the forest with plenty of cover and room to retreat than stuck between the open fields and the river.”  He sighed and paused for a much longer time before saying roughly.  “He did all he could about my father.  Boromir made sure he was between us whenever he was home; but it was an unfair burden to him...”

       “A burden?”  She didn’t understand.

        He was silent for so long that she feared she’d upset him.  “My father disliked me.  He...he made it quite clear in everything he did, from as far back as I can remember, but,” Faramir said slowly, his voice showing he was long resigned to the fact, “He loved my brother very much.  It was always between Boromir and I—Father would give a word of praise and he would feel proud until he noticed that I had had none and his pride would curdle to shame…he could not feel proud as long as I did not and it hurt us both.  I wanted him to feel proud; he was a great warrior, a great leader of men.  He should not have been ashamed of his doings.”  He looked at her suddenly and Éowyn was aware she'd moved very close indeed.  “All my life I have fought against jealousy that he should be so loved and I should not when we were both equally worthy.  I hated that feeling because I loved Boromir too and I never wanted to feel envious of him.  He was my brother, my blood, do you understand?” 

        “Yes.”  Éowyn thought of standing at the doors of Meduseld, watching Éomer's shield and helm gleam bright in the sun as he turned his horse away, one arm going up as always in a salute to her before signaling his men to move out.  He was free; not only able but expected to ride out into the Mark to protect his home while she, well, she made sure the cook's new lad did not overcook the roast for dinner and that the women finished mending her brother's shirt before he came back this time.  Éowyn bit her lip, twisting a lock of her hair round and round one finger; she was thinking that she and Faramir had more in common than she would thought.  “I understand very well.”

        It was almost a minute before he spoke again and his voice was miserable.  “I tried to go to Imladris...it was my dream, but Father would not let me.”  Anger came to his features as he spat, “He did not trust me to undertake such a journey, thought that at the first difficulty I would come back.”  Faramir was staring straight ahead.  She knew he wasn't truly aware of her any longer as his face crumpled and his head bowed, shoulders caving in.  He muttered raspily, “If I'd gone, maybe...  It should have been me, why would he not allow it…?  He hated me, why would he not spare me willingly?  I…I never understood…”

        “Shh, it was not your fault.  Hush.”  Éowyn scooted against him, wrapping her arms around Faramir’s side, unable to bear any more of his pain.  He shifted to meet her and his chin rested on her shoulder, his arms going around her waist easily, naturally.  She felt him shake once, a sharp jerk, and then shudder as he suppressed it.  When Faramir raised his head to face her, so close that she could see his eyes were red rimmed, Éowyn swallowed, sad yet uneasy and terribly aware she was virtually in his lap.  It made her wary even if he didn't seem to notice for few seconds and when he did, he blinked and smiled hesitantly. 

        “I'm sorry.”  Faramir removed his arms from her waist and sat back so that his face wasn’t so near to hers.  Immediately she could breath easier.

        “You don't have to say any more if you don't want to.”  She tried scooting back unobtrusively, but his heavier weight tipped the cushions and she was pressed against his side.  She thought about moving more openly, but before she could Éowyn found herself reaching up to wipe a tear from his cheek.  Softly, she reassured, “It’s all right.”

        Faramir nodded.  “I know.”  He sounded dismal until he sighed and looked at her more purposely.  “Do you wish to speak now?” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose.”  Éowyn wanted a little more room, but it was impossible to get away when he had a hold of her and she didn’t wish to make it obvious.  He always looked so hurt.  Why must I hurt him?  Her guilt was a hot ball in her middle.  He shouldn’t be hurt, he was too good.

        “You don't have to…I will not hold you to the agreement…”

        “Go ahead before I change my mind, Faramir.”  Anxiety made her snappish and she flinched, saying lower, “Please, while I have the courage.  It is difficult…” 

        “All right.”  He smiled slightly, then twisted his finger around a bit of her hair and looked at it with his eyes filled with admiration.  “Tell me, where did you get such a beautiful mane?  It is like spun gold, so soft, so bright…”

        “That's what you wanted to ask me?”  Éowyn was incredulous.

          “It's a beginning.”  He was sober again and her stomach fluttered as his hand began to move.

               “From my father...what are you doing?”

               “My next question.”

              She felt stiff, asking tensely, “How is that a question...?”

             “You,” His index finger ran across her cheek, down her neck, then his hand down her back, all just trailing over her skin and making her shiver.  The sensation was not unpleasant, sending thrills all over her body and making the places he’d touched burn and alight with new awareness.  “Said that you didn't know if you liked it when I touched you, so,” Faramir's hand kept going until it was pressed warm and flat to the small of her back as he moved from sitting sideways to almost directly facing her.  “I'm going to do something and I'll ask you if you like it.”

             “I do not think...” Éowyn objected immediately, her outrage and apprehension warring with a genuine curiosity that shocked her.  Maybe she wanted him to touch her again.  It was not bad and neither was the kiss…what is wrong with me?  She squeezed her hands together, fretting.

              “I haven't asked yet.”  He scolded gently, tracing along her neck again.  She tried not to flinch when he raised his hand to tuck back an errant strand of her hair.

             Éowyn strained to speak in a jesting tone, “You are being awfully daring...”

“I know.”  She watched his face soften.  “I don’t understand why you fear me, have I shown myself to be cruel?”

“No.”  Her eyes burned and she looked down, not allowing him to see her tears rise, her weakness.

“Then who do you fear…who do you see in me?”  Her heart went cold and her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.  Éowyn stiffened and did not respond.  Faramir stroked his index finger over her cheek; surely he felt the dampness from her one tear, but he did not speak. 

He was waiting, she finally realized.  “Please…please don’t ask.”

“Why not?  It troubles you so…I want to help.”  His voice was honest, so honest.  “That is all I want.”

“It won’t help…the only thing that will help is if I forget…I need to forget…” She was babbling, terrified, blackness swirling into her soul, making her cold, making her unable to think or act with the horror of it all.  I don’t want to remember anything, anything…if there was anything of greatness in her life with Faramir, it would be the promise of never again having to think of those dark, terrible years.

Faramir frowned, “I think it would help more to unburden yourself…”

He would not cease now that he’d come close.  Moaning inwardly, she felt the pressure of his soft intent crushing her and she lashed out, desperate to free herself from his gently inquiring face, his patient eyes that would search and search until he rooted out her distress.  Voice sharp, she hissed, “What do you know that will help me?”

He flinched like she’d struck him, then nodded slowly, shifting away on the couch.  “I apologize.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” Éowyn closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could simply vanish.  “I’m very sorry, Faramir, but please, don’t ask…”

“As you will it.”  He sounded distant, saddened.  She picked up his hand and pressed it to her cheek again, feeling its heat, the calluses he bore, the way he cradled her.

“I’m sorry.” 

He smiled woefully.  “I know.”  Éowyn wanted to apologize again, wanted to apologize until the earth was washed away by the Seas, anything to make him merry once more.  They sat in silence, his hand to her cheek for what felt like forever before she pulled it away and kissed the center of his palm.  

Éowyn clasped his hand, then took his other, holding them both to her midsection, keeping him harmless.  His features were quiet, puzzled, but waiting.  He trusted her, clearly.  “I’m sorry…” She held his hands and fought not to weep. 

“It is nothing so great…” He laughed softly, seeking to cheer her, then murmured.  “If I smile, will you not?”

“Yes.”  She did and laughed shakily.  “You are too good for me, too good…”

“No.”  He frowned.  Éowyn released his hands and asked,

“What were you going to do before?”

“I wished to see plainly where it was I sparked fear, to see and take more care to not tread on those lines, to not disturb you.”

She smiled, looking away.  “Go on.”

He worried his lips with his teeth, “You…”

“Yes, you may.  I too want to know.”  She hesitated, “I don’t mean to push you away…I cannot…cannot stand more…”

Faramir nodded slowly.  He untangled his hands from hers and touched her cheek.  Éowyn held still as his fingers smoothed over her brow, tickling her face.  “Are you frightened?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

His hands…what will he do?  “I don’t know…”

He asked tenderly, “Did he strike you, my love, is that why you fear my hand?”  Faramir reassured just as gently, “I would never hit you.”

Éowyn closed her eyes.  He was too close to her secret, her shame.  “Please…”

“I’m sorry…” Faramir lowered his hand and leaned nearer.  He was going to kiss her.  Éowyn held still as he kissed her cheek, her mouth gently, both so softly, not at all with his previous insistence.  “Are you…?”

“No.”  His smile was as brilliant as the sunrise over Pelennor. 

She laughed, and then she couldn't breathe as he bent his head and attached his mouth to her neck and kissed.  Surprised, tensing in fear as she felt his body pressing her lightly to the cushion, Éowyn’s hands went to his chest to push him away, but before she could he'd already stopped and retreated. 

         “Is that too far?”

        She swallowed.  “You surprised me.”

        “I said I wanted to know where the line was…” He was teasing now, “I have many questions, many places to try.”  Faramir bent and kissed the other side of her throat.  “And there?”

           “I...I'm not about to answer that.”  Éowyn was shakily trying for a bantering sort of indignation, trying to match his easy jesting and failing completely.  When he arched a brow, she nodded, giving her answer.

           His smile was broad.  “Then I'll just have to ask until you do.”  Despite the carefree nature of his words, his eyes carefully watched hers as he leaned forward again and her hand went to his shoulder, pressing itself there limply as he suckled her neck, unable to push for the incredibly delicious feel of it.  Oh…he was licking with warm lips fastened tightly enough for suction, pulling away too soon with the slight rasp of teeth and faint stubble.  The sensation was wonderful, sending thrills down to her very toes, making her want to give in, to do whatever he wished as long as he promised not to stop.  

         “Yes.  Yes!”  She gasped and answered just to get him to cease before she died of it. 

“Hmm?”  He suckled just under her chin, pressed to her, all heat and firmness.  Faramir felt good against her.  He felt right.

Briefly warring with her modesty, she laughed in surrender and cried, “Yes, Faramir, I like it!”

          When he leaned back, he was flushed.  His smile was warm, his voice slightly breathy.  “Good.”

          Éowyn could still feel his mouth on her, but it wasn’t unpleasant, making her heart beat faster.  “That...that had better be the last question you have.”  She hoped it was, not knowing where he could test next.  I don’t want him to do more…she didn’t wish to lose this agreeable feeling in a wave of fear.

         “No, I'm afraid not.”  He gave her a roguish grin that widened when she stared at him.  Faramir leaned forward again and she did not protest, feeling his hot breath against her neck as he murmured, “This is only the beginning of my questions…”

***

“Tell me more Éomer.”  When he raised an eyebrow, Aragorn expanded with a smile, “I'm curious; it seems I missed a great deal not having siblings.”

           “You want everything or only childhood stories?”

            “There are recent ones?”  He looked appalled.

Éomer chuckled.  “I gather you have never seen her angry.”

         The King commanded, “Start at the beginning then.”

             “Well, then there was the time she, she was ten I think, anyway she pushed me down the stairs.”

             “She pushed you down the stairs?”  Aragorn laughed.  “Where?  The only true stairs I remember in Edoras were the ones you climb to the doors...” He stopped, “You're jesting with me.”

            “In front of everyone.  All the way down.”  Aragorn burst out laughing.  Éomer grinned, feeling better about his girl, about the state of the City as he continued.  “It was actually more of an accident than a deliberate attempt to kill me, but I broke three of my ribs, and it was all just because I'd...  Wait, did you hear something?”  Éomer frowned, turning as they passed the hall that led to the block of Steward's quarters.  Both men stood in place for several seconds.

           “I don't think so.”  Aragorn finally answered, shaking his head. 

            He hesitated, “Maybe Faramir is not within his rooms...” It was hard to tell which he would prefer—to speak with the Prince in his sister’s presence or without.  Both would be difficult.

            “It's early still, I doubt it.  But if he's not in the main halls with the hobbits and Gandalf or with Éowyn in hers, then we'll check.”

           “He'd better not be in her room.”  Éomer muttered under his breath as they resumed walking.  He thought of the girl again, wondering over her words, trying to discern a clue of where she hailed from so that he might find her house in the City.  Not the City…she’d not spoken as he’d heard from the folk within the Citadel.  Where, then?  Many had come to defend Minas Tirith, he could spend days searching.  Ah, she is not worth the time…he could not expect forgiveness.

        The King broke into his thoughts.  “Well?”  He looked puzzled.  “I thought you were telling me of Éowyn…”

        Éomer shook his head, muttering.  “I’m sorry, I was distracted.”

Aragorn immediately gained a broad smile of teasing good cheer, “Did you meet a Lady?”

Éomer looked at him and laughed in disgust, “There is no call to make such a face…” He shook his head, “I made her weep, you have no need to be so smug…”

He broke off as the King put his arm across his chest, halting them both.  Aragorn’s voice was slow with disbelief.  “Made her weep?”

Éomer looked away in shame.  “Yes.”

Aragorn’s face worked, his features struggling in laughter and incredulity.  Finally he asked, “How?  However did you do that”

“I did not mean to…I simply told the truth…”

The King shook his head.  “Did she ask you to?”

“No…but…” He felt his guilt and tried to bury it in exasperation, “This girl was so arrogant you would not believe it.”

“You were not told about diplomacy as a child, were you?”  The King gazed at him like a father did a willful, truculent son.  Éomer sighed,

“She was being insufferable.  I could not help but speak and then I could not stop my tongue.”

Aragorn chuckled.  “This Lady seems a fine match, then.”

He burst out in irritation, “There will be no match!” 

“No, of course not, not any longer as you’ve made her weep.”  The King laughed, “Tell me, Éomer, how does a man like you of seemingly good heart go about sewing such a wide swath of discord in so short a time?  You’ve enraged Faramir, Éowyn and now an innocent Lady…what or who is next?  Dare I let you roam the streets?”

He gritted out, “I did not mean to make her weep.”

The King nodded, “I imagine not.”  After a moment, he asked, “What was her name?”

“She refused to give it.”

“So that you could not find her?  She is wise as well.”  Aragorn snickered at him and Éomer walked faster, irritated.  “Éomer?”  He ignored him.  “Éomer?  Come,” He laughed, saying plaintively, “I didn’t mean it!”  Aragorn caught up and they walked in silence for a moment.  The King asked, “Was she pretty?”

He allowed, “I suppose.”

Aragorn was grinning with glee.  “Does she hold a grudge or did she forgive you?”

Éomer was unsure.  “She seemed to…wish time to debate forgiveness, if grant it at all.”

“Let us see…you say the Lady was arrogant; it seems she holds a grudge,” The King laughed, “I could not have found a better match for you had I scoured the City!  What possessed you to make her weep?”

Grinding his teeth, he repeated himself.  “There will be no match.  I did not mean to make her weep.  I do not wish to speak about her.”

To his relief, Aragorn just chuckled and said no more. 

***

           “Oh, stop it!  Stop!”  Drawing a breath, Éowyn cried out when she could take no more.  He was driving her insane with his nearness, his hands on her sides, and his maddeningly slow exploration of the ever-broadening area she allowed him to touch.  Not that he has forced me any…he’d been unfailingly gentle, but she could take no more for the moment.

           “What is it?”  Faramir's breath ghosted hotly on her exposed shoulder as his fingers nudged aside the hem of her dress to bare still more skin.  “You don't like that?”

          “Yes...I do.”  She wiggled under his mouth, fighting to relax and enjoy it; it did feel nice, really.  Her throat tightened, “But...”

         Faramir pulled away, “Are you afraid?”

“No…”

He kissed below her collarbone, “Then why do you ask me to stop?”  Éowyn gasped as he continued, tensing, her hands clenching his surcoat, involuntarily twisting the leather.  Faramir’s mouth paused above her bosom and she felt the heat of his breath again, drifting into the valley between her breasts.  Would he go lower? 

        Anxious, she licked her lips.  “I…” I don’t know…  “Please…”

He sat up when she shoved his chest and he was panting slightly, face flushed.  The breathless sound of his voice made her tremble in knowing she’d made it so, affected him, even if only to make his heart beat faster and his voice come roughly.  “That's not a clear answer you're giving me...” His grin faded when he saw she was upset.

          “Yes, yes it is.”  She glared at him as she jerked her dress back over her shoulder.

           “Why?”  He frowned but moved away obediently.  Éowyn relaxed; she could breathe again without him hovering over her.    

           “You're such an…I don't need a reason.”

Faramir laughed.  She leaned back when he reached for her and he sobered.  “I'm sorry, I won't do it again.”  Then, obviously unable to help himself, he added smugly, “Without your permission.”

         “What makes you think you will gain it?”  If possible, Éowyn thought, he got even smugger looking.  Voice cool, she added, “You will not.”  She took some satisfaction from his immediate despairing expression; all in play, of course.  Faramir was astonishingly playful when she allowed it and did not give way to fear.

          “Not even if I beg?”

           “No.”  Though she was shocked to find she was already considering the idea.  And what would he sound like if he did beg?  She shivered.  “Most definitely not.”

            “Can I ask you a question?”

           “No!  Wait, is it a real question this time?”  Éowyn was filled with exasperation.  Her skin still hummed where his mouth and hands had touched.  She wasn't quite sure she liked the way he’d gone about it, but the sensations had been undeniably pleasurable.  Perhaps he will be a good lover…she bit her lip and looked down, filled with girlish laughter.

          “Yes.”  He smiled.

           “Well?”

          Faramir broke into a grin.  “When will I get permission?”

          “Oh...” Annoyed, she raised her hand to smack him but he caught it and held it to his chest.

          “Still frightened of me?”  He asked it softly, his gaze focused on her face and she realized this was his real question. 

           Éowyn looked away, tensing.  “Faramir...”

            “I swore I would stop when you said.  I'm a man of my word.  You never have to worry, Éowyn.  I would never hurt you.”

           “I didn't say you would.”

          “You don't have to…” He hesitated, “I can feel you tense every time I move or get closer, it is if you are waiting for me to hurt you, to push my will on you…” Faramir’s voice gentled, “Like some other has before.”  He sighed, “I wish you would speak and unburden your heart.”

          “I can't help it.”  She was defensive, nervous and hoping he would not question her.  Éowyn didn’t wish to snap at him again, didn’t want to see hurt rise on his noble features.

          “I know, I’m beginning to understand…and I won't ask you why again.”  Again it seemed he'd guessed her mind.  “But,” He smiled, “I won't stop wanting to touch you.  I can't help that.  So, can I...”

        She smiled.  It did feel very good.  He took her smile as accord and bent and kissed her throat before she could do anything, quickly moving to catch her earlobe between his teeth.  Éowyn squirmed, “Faramir!”

He laughed loudly and retreated.  “Fine, fine.”

Éowyn sat for a second trying to think.  It feels so good…he would not do anything…  Her fear answered, he might…and she defended fiercely, but he won’t!  Careful, feeling herself blush a little, she allowed, “You may continue…for a while.”

          “As you wish.  Hmm…” He eyed her boldly.  Éowyn followed his gaze down her front.

         “No!”  She gasped, astounded.

          Faramir laughed, “But I haven't even...”

         “No!”  She crossed her arms tightly over her breasts.

He smiled more tenderly.  “I would not have, truly.  I swear.”

         Voice taut, she returned, “I think you might have tried.”

          Faramir became jesting as he did when she grew tense, “And risk your wrath again my Lady?  Your high opinion of my bravery is quite flattering.  I have a nice collection of bruises from earlier.”

            “Oh I barely...” She rolled her eyes, relaxing at his innocently merry tone.  

            He interrupted, “Here again?  You like this, right?  It is not too forward?”  He leaned forward, this time pressing more of his body against hers as his mouth, hot on her skin, kissed and suckled her neck.  Faramir’s voice was low, “I want you to enjoy what I do, answer me and relax, please?”  He was murmuring reassurances, placing tiny, soft and repetitive kisses from her throat to her cheek, her brow, “I will not hurt you, I will do only what you desire…”

            “I know…” Éowyn whispered it with all her courage.  His hands did not circle round her waist as before or even tried again to, as he'd attempted once and been thoroughly rebuffed, slide up her thigh, but instead cupped her elbows as though he accepted and supported her shielding herself.  Éowyn closed her eyes, I can trust him, she thought.

          “You want me to stop?”  He frowned, pulling back when she moved, forcing her arms to come around his shoulders, sliding them up and around his neck.  Feeling strangely exposed, she shivered as his chest pressed against her, placing her palms flat on his surcoat, willfully holding them there.  

            “No.”  She swallowed, trying to relax, fighting claustrophobia; her new position meant he was more on top of her than ever, leaning over her bent knees, pressing her to the back of the couch.  Wrapping her fingers in his dark hair to comfort herself, she whispered again.  “Go on, I like it.”

        He smiled and bent quickly and she surprised herself by laughing at his clear enthusiasm for the task.  He is good, gentle…I can trust him…  Éowyn closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing.  She would have to trust him, she’d already given her word.  Her heart wrenched.  I have no choice but to trust…

***

          “Min Hlaford Éomer.”

         “Gea?”  Éomer turned to face the man who had come to stand before him.  He frowned; he'd sent Halorl to find Éowyn and assumed he'd found her.  At least the Rohir had not reported since and that had been hours before.  The City is large… 

          “Ic...” Halorl grimaced, “ Ic náh infindeð eower sweostor.”

          “Hæfð þu?  Ghwær?”

          “Gea, min Hlaford.”

            Éomer swore.  “Ac Faramir?”

           “Hlaford Faramir?  Ná.”  Halorl was puzzled by the question, but answered anyway.

A brief flash of alarm came over Aragorn's face.  He asked, “Þu eart...?”

          “Áfæstlá!”  The Rohirrim hastily added, “Min Hlaford Elessar.”

          “Léoflic.”  Éomer growled.  “He agreed not to be in her presence without a guard.”  He’d seen Merry in the Hall of Feasts.  There are others…but he could not imagine his sister commanding them.  It this rebellion his or her doing?  Hers and he would merely be annoyed, his…Éomer felt a spark of fear for the anger the rose from deep within himself.

          He’d been silent and the King gazed at him levelly, “Do not think about doing anything foolish, Éomer...”

           His voice was thick with rage.  “That depends on what he is doing.”

Aragorn halted and when he spoke his words held a tone of command.  “I mean it.”

         “As do I.”  Éomer's eyes narrowed and he felt himself tense.

         “I'm well aware you do, that is why I said it.”  Aragorn snapped, impatiently grabbing hold of Éomer's shoulder and stopping him in his tracks.  Halorl stiffened automatically, eyes watchful for any harm to his Lord.  “Faramir is an honorable man who does not deserve your wrath over so small a matter.”

           The honor of his sister was no small matter.  “Let me go, Aragorn.”

         “Give him your sword, I don’t want it within the reach of your hand.”  He nodded at the wary Halorl.

Éomer gritted his teeth in frustration, but obeyed.  He unbuckled the belt and roughly handed his sheathed sword to Halorl.  He tried to lighten his voice, “So, you do think there is a reason to drive me to draw my Gúthwinë against him then?”

          The King’s gaze was cautious.  “Not at all,” Aragorn retorted, “I just do not want you to do something foolish.”

          “Well, we shall soon find out if something foolish is necessary, won't we?”  Éomer turned his back and stalked down the hall, impatient to return to the Houses and his sister’s room.

***

 “Word.”  Faramir raised her hand to press his lips to the tip of Éowyn's index finger. 

            “Léawfinger.”

            “And this now.”  He turned her hand over and kissed her palm.  Faramir had pulled away from her minutes ago, sensing that he had better stop before he had lost control and did anything too forward.  She is so fragile…  He marveled that Éowyn could have slain the Witchking and its loathsome mount with such courage and yet still flinch at his lightest of touches.  But, unable to resist the temptation, he'd slid back on the couch and pulled Éowyn to lie against him with her head resting on his chest.  Faramir had had to hold her, to encourage her to stay with many puppyish and eager kisses to her cheek and throat before she’d relaxed in the new position.

          “Hond.”

          “Ah.”  He bent his head to kiss the top of hers.  Faramir's right leg was hanging off the cushions, his left awkwardly bent with most of Éowyn's weight resting upon it and his left arm was trapped beneath her side; all three were beginning to tingle fiercely as they fell asleep.  I’m too afraid to move and ruin this…  He smiled and endured.

          “Hafela.”

          “Hafela.”  He repeated the word with an inflection he judged to be as close to her accent as he could make it and ran his hand up her arm as far as he could reach. 

          “Earm.”  Éowyn added the next word to his expanding vocabulary as he got to her shoulder.  “Eaxle.”  He heard her swallow, then say, “You'll never remember this.”

           “Probably not.”  Faramir smiled, agreeing easily.  He wavered, not certain if he should, then boldly skimmed his hand across the front of her chest, fingers grazing bare skin just a few scant centimeters above her breasts.  The skin was so soft, so smooth; he marveled and wanted to touch it again, but Éowyn yelped in alarm and slapped his hand away.  “Word.”  Faramir repeated it sternly when she didn't answer.  Finally she did and he could see the curve of her cheek pinken.  He grinned, but felt a rush of pity.  So shy…my wild Shieldmaiden is so shy…like unto a creature in the wood, the slightest noise frightens her…

         “Breost.”  She wriggled onto her side, her weight shifting onto his stomach as she got comfortable.  He winced as blood rushed stinging into his legs; Faramir glanced despairingly at his still trapped right arm, flexing his toes in hopes of restoring circulation.  Éowyn pressed her cheek against his shoulder and said, “I don't know how many words you think you're going to learn, Faramir.” 

He chuckled.  “As many as I am permitted, my Lady.”

         “Inwitful, gálferhð mann.”  She rolled her eyes in surrender.  Faramir let it go unexplained.  He touched her chin.

        “Cinn.”  He cupped her cheek, delighted when she smiled.

        “Céace.”

        “Hmm.  This?”

She held still when he traced her curving lips then the gentle oval of her face.  “Lippa.  Onsyn.” 

        “Which is which?”  Faramir was briefly confused, mesmerized anew by the softness of her skin.  Like the petals of a flower…

        “Onsyn is the word for face.  You're not even paying attention.”  She turned to peer up at him after his hand left her.

        “I am so.”  She probably had a point, but Faramir wasn't ready to concede it.  He was having too much fun to end this game.

“Ic twéoð hit, min inwitful mann.”

“What was that?”  He looked curiously down at the top of her head.  She'd spoken in a rather amused tone, shaking her head.

 Éowyn said innocently.  “Náþing á Faramir.”  She smiled a rare mischievous smile.  “Min léof, andgietléas mann.”

Min léof.  Faramir was startled, remembering those were the words the woman he'd assumed was Éowyn had spoken to him in his dream.  It was she…his heart leapt with hope and joy.  “Well now I shall certainly have to know.”

“No!  Stop!  No!”  She squealed, then Éowyn thrashed, laughing and squirming as he tickled her side with his trapped left hand, his right wrapped securely around her stomach to cut off any attempts to escape. 

“Tell me.”  Faramir gave a mock growl, playfully wiggling his fingers in a threat of more tickling.  Somehow she'd moved up and completely onto her back; now he was resting his chin on her shoulder.  He nuzzled it, then kissed her neck.

“No!”  To his delight, Éowyn seemed to soften at his kiss.  She smiled and her objection was weaker, “No.”

“Then you give me no choice but to...” He began dramatically then trailed off, uncertain. 

“What're you going to do?”  Her voice was a bit nervous as she turned her head, luxurious masses of golden hair spilling over his front.  Faramir hesitated, desperately trying to come up with an adequate consequence to his warning that would not upset her.  Éowyn had just begun to truly relax, but now he could feel her stomach tighten under his arm.  Finally, he just growled again, nuzzling her hair.  “You sound like a troll...” But that was all she said before he began to gently nibble her earlobe.  Faramir smiled, inwardly triumphant when she didn't object. 

He halted for a moment to jest.  “No, they're much louder.” 

“Are...they?”  Éowyn was distracted; he kept nibbling for a moment before pulling away to answer.

“Oh yes.”  Faramir grinned then said firmly, “Word.” 

Her reply was hardly above a murmur.  “Eare.”

He chuckled softly, kissing the delicate curve of her ear.  “That makes sense.”

***

“Stay here.”  Aragorn left no room for objections and Éomer offered none, at least none verbal.  The sharp clench of his hands into fists and the way he ground his teeth spoke for itself, he thought, silently gathering his rage just in case.  Halorl, still holding Éomer's sword, hovered behind him.

When it was obvious Aragorn expected an answer, Éomer nodded impatiently, “Fine.”  The King turned to walk down the short hall to the door to Éowyn's room, leaving him waiting in the wide corridor.

          “If you're looking for Éowyn she's not in there.”  A small dark figure popped out of the shadows in the quiet Houses.  All three men jumped, startled.  The hobbit, clad in his black guard attire, looked pleased, rocking on his large heels, hands behind his back.

          “Pippin!”  Aragorn scolded.  “What are you doing scaring people?”

“I was just walking by.”  He pouted then grinned.  “It's not my fault you big folk are so noisy you can't hear...”

“How do you know she's not there?”  Éomer interrupted.

“Merry and I knocked a while ago.”

“What for?”  Éomer asked at the same time Aragorn frowned and said, “Pippin, what do you have behind your back?”

“Nothing.”  His eyes went wide but he smiled and taking his hands from behind his back and holding them out for inspection.  They were empty.  He answered Éomer’s question second.  “We just wanted to ask her if she wanted to go...go somewhere with us.  Tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“Us hobbits.  Merry and me.”  Pippin thought for a moment.  “Maybe Gandalf too.”

“Why?”  Aragorn was gazing suspiciously down at the halfling.

           “We like her.  Why, don't you Aragorn?”  The hobbit looked genuinely curious.  And suddenly forgetting his irritation, Éomer smiled.  He was imagining a marriage proposal from the Shire.

Sighing and folding his arms in a remarkably parental way, Aragorn answered, “Yes, of course I do.”  He eyed the hobbit.  “Now tell me what have you got in your pocket.”

            “My pocket?”  Pippin was all wide-eyed innocence.

“Yes, I do still remember Rivendell,” Aragorn glared, “Although exactly how you found a snake in the winter escapes me nonetheless.”

“It was harmless!”  Pippin cried.

“It was still a snake.”

“A harmless one!”

“But it...” Aragorn rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, never mind.  What do you have now?”

“Nothing!  Wait, why are you looking for Éowyn?”  Pippin asked hopefully, obviously attempting to change the subject.

“You put something in your pocket, I saw you.”  Aragorn insisted.

“We are looking for Éowyn and Faramir.”  Éomer impatiently stressed each word in order to make sure they heard him.

“Oh.  Haven't seen them.  Umm...Ihavetogonow!”  Pippin squeaked and with a hurried bow, quickly trotted away.

“He had something.”  Aragorn muttered, then he blinked and said cheerfully, “Well, I guess she isn't here.  Éowyn must be somewhere else then.  Perhaps we should check...”

“His quarters?”  Éomer was not amused any longer.  He'd hoped to find his sister in her room and Faramir alone.  Now there was a real possibility he wouldn't like what he found when he eventually caught up with them.  Éomer flexed his hands, tensely clenching and unclenching them; he hoped he wouldn't discover them alone together; it was a dangerous slight to his authority for Faramir to pay no regard to a direct command.  And although a small portion of him admired the daring, he wondered irritably that if they were together, why Faramir couldn't have just taken her out with everyone else.  I would not care if they were in the Hall of Feasts alone or in the gardens or even walking the streets!  Why could he not do that?  He calmed himself with an effort.  They’d not seen everywhere; the Steward could have easily taken his sister to one of the places he’d thought of.  Éomer gestured impatiently, “Let us go to his rooms.  Now.”  

“If you wish.”  Aragorn sighed in defeat and Éomer fell into step with Halorl behind them. 

***

            Faramir couldn't take it any longer.  When he’d run out of places she’d allowed him to touch, Éowyn had lain still, and he’d fallen silent.  They’d stayed that way for a short while.  He’d felt the effort of breathing with her slight weight on his chest, the warmth of her body, the tickle of her hair on his neck and closed his eyes, pretending that if he moved she would not flinch, but instead smile and welcome his advances with open arms.  It is yet fantasy…  Faramir opened his eyes and sighed.  Éowyn then turned over so that she faced him, a movement he’d not expected.  He looked at her, waiting, but she’d not given any further sign, just stared back at him.  He could feel her heart beating fast.

  Daring to take initiative, he’d kissed her, having to reach, and she’d not pulled back, but instead had begun with much hesitation to touch him in return.  Her slim little fingers tiptoed over his cheek, sliding under his jaw with the softest of touches; when he’d pulled back from her mouth, she touched his, laughing and jerking away when he’d lightly caught her fingertips between his teeth.  Éowyn had resumed her exploration as he’d resumed his kisses, the smooth pads of her fingers tracing his brow, running through his hair, then down to his shoulder, they felt of his arm, she’d passed her palm over his chest.  She’d spent a long while with her hand on the White Tree. 

But her tentative touches were driving him dangerously close to ideas he knew he shouldn't be getting anytime soon.  Careful, she is at ease now, but what of the next kiss?  It was all too uncertain, so he gently pushed her away and stood slowly, shaking his arm and flexing his fingers to get the feeling back into them.  Éowyn sat up with her feet curled under her; she looked waif-like, an innocent child he’d simply found in his rooms.  “It was asleep.”  He explained absently, shaking his arm harder, hoping she would accept the excuse.

            “Sorry.”  She yawned, covering her mouth, then shivered and rubbed her arms. 

            “Are you cold?”  Faramir wasn't at all but then his sable surcoat, sable cotehardie and dark collared shirt beneath it covered him far better than her simple dress.  He eyed the skin it bared—it looked as delicious as she’d felt within his arms.  He smiled, thinking that wrapping her in something might ease his growing temptation. 

            “A little.”  He took a moment out from forcing the blood back into his arm to throw some wood on the dwindling fire and for the first time noticed that most of the candles were burned down to sputtering nubs.  It was far later than he'd realized.  She looks tired too.  Éowyn pulled her knees to her chest.  Faramir guiltily remembered that he'd slept most of the day and she hadn't. 

            “You want a blanket?”  He offered politely, nodding toward his bedroom, hoping to prolong her stay.

            She frowned.  “I should go.”

            “Must you…?”  He cut himself off, embarrassed.  Of course she has to go.  Éowyn smiled. 

            “I suppose I could stay a bit longer, if you read to me from one of those books.”

            “Which one?”  He glanced at his overflowing desk and chuckled.  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

            She looked more interested than he would have guessed.  “An exciting one.”

            “All right.  Give me a moment.”  Faramir picked up his drawing, though not without a pang of sadness, and carried it into the bedroom.  He lifted the lid on the second wooden chest and carefully placed it inside before taking out an old book, the pages curling and tattered.  Clutching it in one hand, he pulled the top layer of furs off of his bed and carried them back to the couch, dumping the hides into her lap.  “Here.”

            “Thank you.”  And she was immediately lost in them, snuggling deep into the silky pelts.  Éowyn’s voice held more cheek as she asked, “What else did you bring me?”

            He grinned, heart light at her ease, and held up the book.  “Elves, dragon's gold and silmarils, what else would be a worthy prize for my Lady?”

             “What tale is that?”

            “Not one, but bits and pieces of the great elven stories.  Do you not hear them in Rohan?”  He was unable to imagine such a thing.

            She shook her head.  “We have our own tales and hear others only in scraps told by traders or sung by minstrels.”  Éowyn’s voice became quieter, “We’ve not heard them in many years…few have traveled to Edoras.”

        Trying to cheer her, he remained blithe.  “Well, you'll have to tell them to me some night.”  Faramir stole some of the furs as he sat down, intentionally giving her a little room, but he was pleasantly surprised when she scooted to his side at once and curled up there.  Thinking he was probably pushing it, but not caring, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and opened the book on his lap.

            “If you want.”  She finally murmured a reply.  Faramir smiled, wondering how long it would be before she fell asleep.  If she can fall asleep against me, surely she trusts me…  He turned the frayed cover and the pages fell open to a familiar place.  Faramir began to read, 

            “The leaves were long, the grass was green, the hemlock-umbels tall and fair, and in the glade a light was seen of stars in shadow shimmering...”

            “What is that?”  Éowyn raised her head to peer at the book.  “It's in that other language.”  She sounded both surprised and intrigued.

        “Yes, it’s written in the high elven tongue…”

“You can read that?”

“Aye.”  He felt embarrassed and a bit proud to see how it impressed her.  Faramir cleared his throat, aware he was boasting, “I’ve learned the high elven and the grey elven as part of my studies.”

Éowyn nodded and he continued,  “It was the only copy I could find at the time.  It’s a portion of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, beginning with the poem written about them.”

            “Go on.”

            “Tinúviel was dancing there to music of a pipe unseen, and light of stars was in her hair, and in her raiment glimmering...”

            Éowyn was smiling, piping up again from his shoulder; her hand had wedged itself against his side where she lay, all warmth and pleasing womanly softness.  “I thought her name was Lúthien.”

            “It is.  Just listen.”  He found his place, “There Beren came from mountains cold, and lost he wandered under leaves...”

        She interrupted yet again.  “Speak it in the other.”

        Frowning, he turned to look at her.  “But you won’t understand it.”

        Éowyn shook her head, “I want to hear it, I’ve never heard the elven tongue.”

        With much patience, Faramir started back at the beginning.

            Translations:   

Cifesboren! Ác ádung—Bastard  An apology?

Seo is toss atol, Faramir, is hit ná?—That is too bad, Faramir, is it not

þeos wif is faegere—this woman is beautiful

Ic náh infindeð eower sweostor.—I could not find your sister

Hæfð þu?  Ghwær—You looked?  Everywhere?

Áfæstlá—Of course

Léoflic—wonderful

Inwitful, gálferhð mann-Wicked, wanton man.

Ic twéoð hit, min inwitful mann-I doubt it, my wicked man.

Náþing á Faramir. Min léof, andgietléas mann-Nothing at all Faramir.  My dear, senseless man.