Éowyn looked over her shoulder as Gaer tugged her away through the milling throng, his hand firmly grasping to hers.  But as she did, he halted at once, pale eyes dim in the torchlight, and surprised her with his care, “My Lady, does it displease you to be parted…” The Rider paused, saying meaningfully, “For a short while, a dance or,” His voice held hope, “Two?”

        She smiled graciously, thinking that it might have if another man had rendered her so swiftly from Faramir’s side, but Gaer she could handle without nerves.  He was brazen, perhaps somewhat infatuated, but utterly harmless in word or action.  “Ná, Gaer.”

        His wide grin showed she’d delighted him.  “My Lady, highest and most beautiful of gentlewomen, has bothered to remember my lowly name.”  He bowed deep, asking with a glinting eye, “Do I chance to believe she favors my humble company?”

        She couldn’t help but smile, replying archly, “I would never say that you were humble, Master Gaer.” 

“Ah, plainly I stand in well-needed correction, my Lady.”  Éowyn laughed, extending her hand in a show of formality.  Gaer kissed it with obvious relish and she laughed again, allowing him to pull her farther, skirting the ring of dancers—it was already complete, there was no room for them in this turn.  As he led her, she glanced at him surreptitiously, still amused.  He was a fine man, a kindly one who made her laugh and if she’d returned to her country without a love in her heart Gaer might have made a decent husband to stand at her side.  But he would not bid me change nor challenge me to greater being…  Éowyn smiled.  Faramir did what no man of her land could simply by being who and what he was.

She laughed, seeking simpler thoughts, “Wherever are we going to?  I thought you wished a dance?”

“Here, no farther…” They were on the edges now, well out of the way of dancing folk and amid some maids selling ales.  He was grinning, “Can I be faulted for desiring a quiet moment in my one chance to speak to my dearest, most generous Lady?”

She smiled, narrowing her eyes at him, reproaching playfully, “I’m not your dearest and I fail to see how I am generous.”

“Ah, yes, but I had heard of an agreement between you and some of my younger companions.  A most generous one.”  Gaer’s face was attempting to look innocent, an expression she guessed he’d had little occasion to wear as he said lightly, “There was talk of a reward of great magnificence given for a certain duty and it seemed to me I performed and saw no reward.”  His features sank into mock despondency.

Éowyn flushed with laughter even as her heart chilled, “Did you do as was required?”

“Aye, most willingly and would again.”  They spoke with teasing voices, but his eyes had long become sober.  “I enjoy his company.”

Éowyn smiled fondly.  “As do I.”

Gaer smiled as well.  “Can we speak then, you and I, of this task?”

“And of its reward?”

He looked away, voice sly, “I do bear hopes of redress…once I’ve proven myself worthy, of course.”

She burst into laughter.  “Fetch me an ale…” Éowyn looked about, “And a seat and we shall speak for a while before you return me to Faramir.”  Gaer blinked at her as though he could hardly believe his good fortune, then half-bowed and bolted away with comic eagerness to do as she’d bid.  Turning to watch the dancers, she smiled as her brother moved by; his grimace, as well as the grim concentration in his face made her laugh, hand to her mouth.  It’s supposed to be fun, brother!  The Queen looked quite content, urging him onward, her eyes bright, feet moving with confident elven grace as she laughed and danced.  When Faramir passed two smiling maids were attached to either side of him, trying vainly to keep up.  Éowyn watched, finding herself to be fiercely jealous when he grinned at one and nodded in praise of her efforts.  She rolled her eyes at herself.  Oh, I am a fool… 

Gaer returning brought welcome distraction.  He had a stool over his shoulder, precariously holding two mugs in his other hand.  She took one quickly as he sat the stool down for her, saying with a smile, “I apologize for its crudeness, but I feared if I took longer some other would have stolen you away.”

“Ná.”  Sitting gratefully, Éowyn sipped from the mug, expecting bitter ale, but instead she got a much sweeter cordial.  “This is good.”  Gaer looked pleased.  She used the same voice as she did when she heard the claims of injustice given forth by peasants,  “Now, tell me of your services so that I may judge if you are worthy of reward.”

“I’ve taught him as much as I could of our folk, though,” The redheaded Rider grinned, “Faramir is slow to learn our ways.  He does not see no matter how I try to show him that we are different, that this is not the South.”  He reassured, “But he will.  He is a good man, worthy of you, my beloved Lady.  Not all see that in him…he hides what he is and what he can do, and I do not know why.  The lads love him because he has great knowledge, more than most…” Gaer fell quiet for a moment, pensive, “More than we, much more.”  He sighed, “He is kind-hearted and quick to pardon, too quick.  Faramir acts as a nobleman does, it is his life and it should be expected.  But I have seen some think of this as contempt or weakness, which he does not intend and does not have.”  Gaer finished simply, “He is different in heart and mind, that is all.”  He smiled, “I like this difference.” 

She smiled back, “So do I.”  Then Éowyn asked more tensely, “What of that man…?”

“He holds grudge for the loss of his honor, but I do not know what Faramir had to do with it…save that he hails from the City.  Some have soured on those from Mundburg…” He looked away, “They think themselves as men ruined, dishonored and it is all foolishness.  They cannot be helped, only tolerated and left be like rogue horses, my Lady.  Some will come back to themselves, some not.”

This puzzled her, but she had more serious questions.  “Are there others that seek to hurt my husband?”  Her words came without thought or effort, surprising her so that she fell quiet and clutched her mug.  If they surprised Gaer he did not show it,

“None that I hear of, my Lady.”  He inclined his head, “I give my word that I have asked far and wide.”

“I believe you.”  She hesitated, “Tell me, why?”

“Why?”  He looked confused, “Why should I not guard Faramir?  He is dear to your heart and so my purpose is yours, my Lady, to keep him safe until he returns to his land with you and though I grieve at your absence, I rejoice in your happiness.”  His voice lowered, “I would see you with light in your eyes again and always.”  Gaer gazed at her and she saw very suddenly how he loved her deeply and unapologetically as he murmured, “And not darkness, ever.  If it is Faramir æt Mundburg that brings this light, then I will do all in my power to safeguard him.  It is my duty as your servant.”

She swallowed, throat tightened with emotion.  “I thank you very much.”  Éowyn glanced to him, wondering, where did you ride when Gríma lived here…I could have used your comfort and service then, Gaer.  Perhaps he’d been like to many of the men of her lands, their honest eyes slowly clouded by dark dreams, hardly knowing what they did or even if what they saw and heard were truly real.  She shuddered.

He frowned, noting the quaver of her shoulders.  “Are you well?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn took a breath and tried to recapture their easy bantering.  “I’ve found you worthy.”  More than worthy for your aid…

Gaer smiled.  “Dare I expect the reward?”

“Aye.”  She laughed, stomach filled with butterflies, able to see that the man before her was strong, broad and robust under his plain trousers, shirt and rough brown jerkin; the notion of rewarding Gaer was far different than the that of granting the same to the five lads.  He’d been crouched to speak to her, now he began to rise and step back so that she could stand and she gestured, laughing hastily,  “Oh, kneel, so I don’t have to attempt to reach you.”  He did with a grin that quickly faded, his usually cheery face uncertain.  Gaer waited and she leaned forward to push some of his red hair from his forehead, then press a swift kiss to his warm, fair-skinned brow.  

Immediately he raised his bowed head and spoke, declaring with much cheek, “I had heard it was given on the mouth.”  When he looked at her his eyes glowed.

Éowyn laughed loud in delight, shaking her head and rocking back on her stool.  “You heard wrongly, Gaer.”  She put her hand to her face, giggling, “Humble, indeed, you’re no such thing at all!”  Éowyn smiled, “You misjudge the boldness of those lads.  They’re not half as daring as you!”

He sighed in disappointment.  “Will you not dance a while with me?”  Gaer nodded to the ring of folk, “I’ve gone to all the trouble of laying a pair of pretty distractions on Faramir…it would be a shame to waste my work.”

She stood, smoothed her red skirts, and drank the rest of the sweet liquor in a series of long gulps.  Éowyn was amused to feel her head swirl just a little as she took a step forward.  “Yes, I will.”  He made to take her hand and she saw for just an instant how he wavered, how he extended his with care and a respectful hesitancy.  Utterly harmless is what he is…  She liked Gaer very much and was terribly glad he’d befriended Faramir.  “I am glad you are coming to the City with us.”

He smiled in pleasure, more ardently offering his broad, callused palm.  “My Lady?”

Taking it and feeling how his fingers were thicker, blunter than Faramir’s slender, graceful ones, she commanded.  “Éowyn.”

“Éowyn…” He nodded, repeating her with doubtful shyness so that she laughed. 

Completely harmless.  “Aye, you know my name, and now I grant you leave to say it as you wish, Master Gaer.  Call it recompense if you like, for not receiving your kiss on the mouth…though I quite think you’d rather have the kiss.”  Éowyn laughed again as she led him to the dancers.  “Now, as you distracted my betrothed, I expect much merrymaking and I shall not be disappointed!”  He was glowing again and she smiled widely, adding, “Let none come between us save Faramir, understand?”  Éowyn glanced at the multitude of unfamiliar men around her.  She trusted them to an extent; to act with courtesy, to protect and serve her, but she found she did not wish for more intimate contact with them.  They were unknown, made dangerous in the very fact that their danger was unascertained. 

“Aye, min—” He caught himself, “Éowyn.”  Gaer’s pale eyes had gentled, singularly so, and she looked at him, wondering.  “I understand.” 

 Filled with reservations, Éowyn did not ask if he meant what she thought and he did not speak again, simply grasping the hand of a passing dancer.  As the circle quickened and grew, she was near pulled off her feet with all words and notions running out of her head like water from a pail, leaving nothing but laughter. 

They danced for several turns, fast and wild, but after nearly falling twice with Gaer’s quick, strong grip the only thing keeping her on her feet, she begged to stop.  He led her aside again, both of them breathing hard and occasionally laughing in exhilarated bursts, to stand against the side of a cart that held barrels of ale.

She felt something, light at first, and frowned, disbelieving with shocked little snickers starting to bubble up from her chest, “What is that arm?” 

“What arm?”  He held up his other to frown at it.  “This one?”

Éowyn giggled and shrugged her shoulders.  “No, this heavy one here!”  It was heavy, thicker and weightier with muscle and bone than Faramir’s.  She let it remain, finding herself unafraid of the intentions of the man that owned it and curious at the difference of the feel.  This is what I would have felt had I wed a man of my lands…  Éowyn was not terribly displeased, but knew at once that she preferred the lighter touch of her beloved.  She glanced at Gaer.  If he fell asleep atop me I would be trapped…they’d find me squashed flat…and broke into blushing laughter for her immodest thoughts.

Meanwhile, Gaer had been turning his head this way and that as though to see.  His puzzled expression cleared as he craned his neck to glance behind her.  “Ah, that one.” 

“Yes!”  She could barely breathe with her laughter.

Gaer looked at his arm with mild surprise, as though he’d not known it had strayed to rest so brazenly over her shoulders.  “It is mine…” She stared at him expectantly, smile on her lips, and he added with droll solemnness, “I would not worry, it is a chaste, respectable arm…” His face broke into a wide grin like he could hold it back no longer, “For the most part.”

Bursting into laughter anew, as he so often and so easily seemed to make her do, she gasped, “May it stay that way!”

“Aye, I would strive to keep it so, friend Gaer.”  A familiar and gently ribbing voice, masked for the moment in sternness, made her spin.  Faramir stood smiling to the right of her.  Éowyn heard her own delighted squeal with half an ear as she ducked from under Gaer’s hastily withdrawn arm and rushed to embrace him.  His surprised grin of pleasure as his arms slid around her waist was as bright as the Sun.  She snuggled tightly into his hug, loving his familiar body, long and tall like to the very bow he carried and used so well. 

Behind her, Gaer sighed with defeat.  He peered about himself.  “Where did those maids go?  I thought I told them to keep you occupied for the night.”

Éowyn glanced between them, comparing.  She smiled and wrapped her arms about his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss his nose and declare, smiling, “You’re all legs, min cempa.”  Gaer raised a brow at the name, making her laugh.  Am I a bit drunk?  Éowyn rather thought so though, but she could not say whether it was from liquor or happiness or both. 

Amused, Faramir nodded, looking to Gaer with even further mirth.  “What did you call me, Cranebayn?”

 The Rider guffawed and she laughed with delight.  “I like that.”

“We’ve yet to name you.”

“I know.”  Faramir’s eyes danced, “I’ve got the feeling you’ve begun to shirk at that task…I haven’t heard a name in days.”

Gaer snorted, “You’re too difficult!”

***

        He laughed, “So you keep saying!”

        Éowyn’s head rested against his heart, her arms hugged his middle; she murmured into the White Tree on his surcoat, “Dælric.  You may call him that.”  Gaer looked at her sharply,

        “From what does it come?”  He frowned, “That’s two parts at least; noble enough to fit without insult.  But I’ve never heard it before.”

        “Mmm-hmm, because I made it just now.”  She laughed and pulled back to smile upward, “You could say it Dale-ric, too.  Nobleman of the dell, the groves.”  Her smile widened, “My Prince of Ithilien.” 

        Faramir blinked at her, “That’s not bad at all.”  He glanced to Gaer, taunting, “You couldn’t think of that?”  The redheaded man grimaced.

        Éowyn continued lazily, “Dæl…as a word it means greater than can be measured,” She smiled, touching his face, “Ric means a man of nobility, a ruler of influence.  Dælric, a Lord whose supremacy and greatness cannot be measured.”

        Faramir looked at Gaer, brow raised.  The Rider stared back for a moment, then threw his arms into the air with a cry of impatience.  “What do you expect from me?  I’m but a lowly man-at-arms, of course she’s better!”  He laughed and shifted his feet, wanting to take her away to privacy, but before he could speak, Gaer sensed this and smiled, bowing low, “Lady Éowyn, if I may take my leave of you?”

        She frowned.  “If you must.”

        The Rider glanced at him, saying wryly, “Aye, I believe there are two maids I must go scold, as they’ve not done their promised duty.”  Faramir smiled,

        “I’m afraid they didn’t like my company.”

        Gaer smiled, taking a step back as he chuckled, “I would guess they were frightened of our Lady’s wrath if she found them.”

        Éowyn reached to press the Rider’s hand.  “Goodnight, Gaer.”  Her voice softened, “Thank you again.”  Then she laughed aloud.  “Come closer, I’ve another reward for the kindness of your heart.”  The Rider blinked and to Faramir’s surprise, bent his knee and bowed low, holding the position of subordination.  Stepping away from his arm, Éowyn ran her fingers through the red hair that adorned the Rohir’s head, still cast downward, then put a hand to his temples, holding him to plant a light kiss upon Gaer’s brow.  She smiled as she released him,  “Are you compensated enough for your want?”   

        Rising slowly, he nodded.  “With all fullness and all welcome, my Lady.”  Gaer answered with his customary cheek, though Faramir could see the flush that had come to his face.  He then bowed low and retreated, leaving Faramir to wonder in slight jealousy what that was all about.

        But not for long, as Éowyn pulled him down to kiss him deeply.  She wrapped her arms about his neck, leaning close to nuzzle her nose to his as she said slowly, speaking each word with smiling deliberation.  “I…love…you.”

        “Mmm.”  He kissed her back.  “Is that so?”

        “Aye…” Éowyn took a breath, then murmured in soft song, the words coming faintly to his hearing as the night air was full of music and the noises of multitudes of rowdy Rohirrim, “Ic eom fealu gien in eower earms…  Girðing máre seo hrimmceald stan weardiað scop me swa…”

        He’d understood some, but not all as she’d been barely audible.  …something about being in my arms.  Faramir smiled; the tone had been happy, at least.  Oddly, her words had flowed together, melding unlike the usually clear way that she spoke to him in her tongue.  “What did that mean?”

Éowyn did not answer, only sang further, still with a bashful smile, “Ac, ge habbe hlupon seo eall, Feramearh hræd ond stearc.”  She touched his chest, sliding her hand down his arm, “Eower eages afor, ge seáw me afeorran.  Ic hæbbe ná wyrd fleon mon swa unforht ond swift in æfterflygung.”

He’d pulled his name from the indistinct words but little else, shaking her arms gently.  “Would you not tell me?”

Éowyn shook her head and smiled broadly.  “Ná.  You should know by now.”

“Why not?”

She giggled and ducked her chin.  “I’m shy.”

“No, you’re a tease…” He growled and she laughed, unintimidated. 

“It’s not finished.”

He leaned down to kiss her, murmuring playfully, “I thought I only got one song…”

“I lied.”  She laughed then Éowyn tugged his hand towards the darkened fields.  “Come with me under the stars.”

He tensed, wary at his own eagerness.  “For what?  It’s dark…don’t you want to dance?”

She smiled in return, mind and thought utterly innocent and he was annoyed with himself.  Éowyn hugged his arm, explaining, “To look at them.”  She entreated,  “Tell me their names in the elven tongues.  I like it when you speak in elvish.”

“All right.”  It seemed a peculiar request, but a simple one.  Faramir glanced upwards at the black heavens, the distant points of brilliance, faintly colored blue, red, white, all flickering and shining.  The Horseman in the sky…  “Where do you wish to go?”

“Away from the fires.”  Éowyn led him by the hand. 

The shapes of horses were dark and many in the night, some snorting in alarm, others barely moving as they passed.  He gazed at them, listening to swishing tails, thudding hooves and teeth cropping the dry grasses.  So simple…so peaceful…what danger could come?  Faramir frowned.  He didn’t know and he was afraid to find it…is that why I stay, if not for her? 

Suddenly a few of the horses bolted in the night, frightened by their movements.  Faramir pulled her closer, anxious that they might get trampled.  Éowyn stood still, comparatively safe in the circle of his arms and hummed softly to some tune he’d not heard before and the minds of the horses around them calmed in realization that they were but Men and not other beasts of a less savory nature.  They walked further, hand in hand and it was pleasant in the coolness of the night.  He smiled, “This is nice.”

Éowyn nodded.  “Mmm-hmm.”

After a few more minutes, he asked, “How far do you wish to go?”  And as though summoned by his voice, there was a loud, deep neigh.  One of the horses, at first a mere black shape in the blackness, came to them.  It moved at a slow, heavy jog that he recognized and Faramir smiled in sudden pleasure as Thorn walked from the night, voicing the faintest and gentlest of nickers over the thudding of his hooves.  Finding himself delighted by the animal’s soft greeting, he smiled and gave one of his own.  “Hello.” 

His hands were searched again, slicked with the horse’s long, nimble tongue, making him both grimace and laugh.  Then his pockets too, were searched with nipping teeth before the gelding went to Éowyn and Faramir took some petty gratification that his mount sniffed her hand only briefly and with little expectation, quickly returning.  She rubbed his thick grey neck, murmuring sweetly, “Hello, Thorn.  He’s a good lad.”  Turning her head, barely seen as she smiled, she said, “He likes you very much.”

He was pleased, patting the grey’s still searching nose.  “Don’t bite me…you think so?”

Éowyn laughed, “I know so, why else would he come to you?”  She tugged gently on the dark mane and Thorn took a step forward so that she stood at his withers.  “Come, he can take us farther.”

“Careful…sometimes he’s a bit…” He’d needed not to caution her, as Éowyn was already aboard, yanking her gown into place so that she could sit astride with her skirts hanging down around her.  Finished, she patted the grey’s broad back and smiled,

“Get on, he’s willing.”  It was awkward with her before him and without the aid of stirrup or mane, but he managed to swing onto Thorn’s back.  Immediately Faramir was aware of her riding ahead of him.  He circled his arms about her waist, aroused by the firm press of her backside to his front even through what felt like yards of skirts.  He scooted forward, wanting to pull up her skirts to feel her bare backside against his front, but that lead to the thought of unfastening his trousers and far, too far, I’d guess… 

She leaned backwards, saying, “I doubt he’d much like what you’re thinking…” 

“What am I thinking?”  Éowyn giggled and shook her head, making him think wryly that she’d not known at all.  Smiling to himself, he stroked his fingers over her stomach, aware that she had nowhere to go, that she could wiggle all she liked, but couldn’t get away.  I’ve got you, my love… 

She jumped when he moved his fingers between her thighs, pressing her skirt down, then spreading his hands and using the tips to slide firmly upward over the curve of her inner legs; that tickles!

Does it?  Good.  Faramir took his time to slide his hands over her upper legs as she’d teased him so long ago by the banks of the Snowbourn.  She felt pleasingly firm, yet still soft and feminine as he squeezed his legs and scooted close to her, trying to mimic her movements from before that had aroused him so much.  Faramir quickly found that though he enjoyed his efforts, he couldn’t, that she could squeeze far more firmly than he could. 

When she finally answered her voice was breathier and held enough appetite to gratify him anyway, “You’re thinking…terribly indecent things.”

“Mmm-hmm…” He nuzzled her neck, feeling the warmth of her body as Thorn began to walk in response to all his movements.  The slow back and forth friction was maddening.  He experimented, shifting to press more closely, enjoying the teasing nature of it.  Almost too much…he laughed to himself.  “I think I’m allowed to…as you’re being terribly indecent yourself.”

He heard her smile as she turned and gasped, “How so?”

“Let’s see…my beautiful…incredibly desirable maiden leads me alone into the dark fields under the guise of telling her the names of stars in elvish…” Faramir kissed her neck, her cheek, sliding her gown aside a few inches here and there to put kisses on her bare shoulders.  “I call that having intentions of being indecent.”  Her skin was warm, soft and smelled very, very good.  “What soap is this?”

“I don’t know.”  Éowyn protested with a laugh, “And I’ve no intentions at all!”  She pinched his leg.  “You know that, you scoundrel.”

Sliding his hand up to cup her breast, he growled, “Aye, you don’t, but I do.”  He’d meant it only as jest, but she turned to look at him, capturing his hands in her own.

Her eyes were unreadable in the dimness as she asked hesitantly.  “Do you know what the women do at harvest festivals?”

Faramir shook his head.  “No.”  She seemed to relax and didn’t answer.  It took him a moment, but he guessed and saw the reason for her hesitation.  He smiled, finding that he did not truly think for a moment that she would lead him out to do such a thing.  Don’t worry, you’re not half as indecent as I…

Pulling his arms to link chastely about her waist, Éowyn leaned comfortably against his front and pointed upwards to a blazing star.  “Tell me the name of that one there.”

He frowned, gazing around the clear, vivid sky and taking in the constellations about it though he’d already guessed by its intense light.  “Helluin, the brightest of stars.”

Éowyn pointed again, almost in challenge, and he supplied, “That group of stars is called Wilwarin, the ‘Butterfly’.  I don’t know the names of all of them.”  Thorn plodded forward and after a short while Faramir nodded upwards, raising his arm, “That is called Soronúmë, in the Eagle.”  He pointed to another, nudging her shoulder so that she faced the correct way, “There is Valacirca, the ‘Sickle of the Valar’.”

“We call it the ‘Wain’.”  She was smiling again; he could hear it, “And that one, min cempa, wise in all things?”

I don’t know about that…  Aware that his voice contained a rather boastful note now, Faramir smiled as he named, “The brightest blue…right there…is Luinil.”  He leaned back, resting his hands on Thorn’s broad rump; rarely had the gelding been so docile.  The grey had even dropped his head and was grazing as though unaware of their weight.  I assume this is to his liking…somehow.  Looking further, he added, “The red star is Borgil at the head of the Swordsman.”  He pointed to a familiar constellation, easily remembered because of its belt of three stars in a line.  “The whole is called Menelvagar, the ‘Swordsman of the Sky’.”  Faramir frowned, “I can’t remember the name of his girth.”

“A swordsman?”  She laughed.  “He is a horseman.”

“Is this the Horseman?”

“Of course.  He gave to us our horses…they came from the sky.”

Faramir listened to this with a mixture of fascination and skeptical amusement.  “The Mearas came from the sky?”  He dropped his chin to her shoulder, curling against her body again.  “I heard Oromë gifted them from over the Sea.”

She laughed, “Béma gifted them and none came from the Sea.”

He nodded, smiling.  “Yes, I was taught that that is his name in the Northern Tongue.  He is called many names by many folk.”  Faramir challenged lightly, “He was a huntsman, not a horseman.  He had one horse, a splendid one that shone like silver and was shod with gold.  Its voice was great and proud.”

She sounded amused.  “Is that what you learned?”

“Aye.”

“What was this splendid horse’s name to your folk?”

That was more difficult to retrieve and he thought for a long while, listening to Thorn’s teeth crop the dry grass.  The grey’s tail swished back and forth, slapping his dangling legs.  “Nahar…?”

Her reply was dubious.  “Truly?”

“As best I can remember.”

 Éowyn sounded a little awed, “That is very fitting name for such a noble beast as the sire of the Mearas.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nahar…Never-old.”  She smiled over her shoulder.  “They are a long-lived breed.  Do you know more of him?”

“No, my folk would not have cared as much.”  Sadly, Faramir added to himself.  He was finding that he cared a great deal.

“Here it is said that he came from the sky, that he ran so swiftly that his hooves threw sparks and his tail caught fire so that he glowed like a star falling to earth as he ran up and down the mountains.  His eye was an Eagle’s, able to see far ahead and behind, and tell truth from lie, nobleman from outlaw.  His strength was that of the earth’s bones; no bridle or saddle could break him, no rope or chain of steel could hold him, no rider could sit his back save the Horseman and he allowed that out of fellowship.”

“What of this Horseman?”  He turned upwards to stare at the familiar constellation.  A new meaning for it held promise of long pondering and stirred his interest.

“He was a Lord of long ago…”

“Aye, Oromë was one of the Vala.”  But he is not in the sky…  The Rohirric version of ancient times was strangely twisted, elements left out or moved, but enthralling anyhow.

“One day…Nahar as you call him… ran down with the mares of Men.”  Éowyn murmured, “He did not return to the sky and you see the horse there?”  She lifted her hand to indicate the constellation of a horse.  The great rift in the tellings of their folk fascinated Faramir even more with this addition and he listened closely, “She is the outline he made to lure Nahar back, the mare he formed with stars.”  Éowyn turned to him, smiling, “But Nahar was wise and called to her and she did not answer, so he knew she was not real.”

“What happened after that?”  It was all different and he looked about himself with an inward laugh.  What do I expect?  But he hadn’t and Faramir knew it well.  I am…somewhere else.  None of their other stories or history had made such an impact to his mind.  The very sky is different here…

Éowyn went on, “He preferred the warm flesh of mortal mares, the guarding of his foals and herd to the endless Hunt and did not return.”

“Wise, indeed.”  He chuckled softly.  Who would prefer slaughter to family…?  Faramir frowned, hugging her waist, feeling her warmth.  Why do I stay?  Everything I wish for sits before me…

“It is also said that he was wise enough to see that the foals he sired were swifter and stronger and that in the broad lands they were Masters of his kind.  That we, the Children of Men, were weak and slow in likening and would not last without the help of his kinfolk and so he counseled his colts to bear us and serve us in willingness so that we might multiply and keep safe the earth from darkness.”  Éowyn fell silent before stating with anxious quickness, “There was an oath between the first man who forged a bit and tanned a bridle and the first horse that wore it, Faramir…an oath given before any ever sat the back of a horse.”  She was serious now, intent.  He was utterly captivated.

“What was it?”

Éowyn’s arm left his embrace to stroke Thorn’s side.  She turned her head to look at him and in the starlight her eyes were very solemn.  “An oath of trust, of love and shared hearts…that all effort would be made to care for the other and that both were equal, none mastered the other and both stood for the other in all their doings without fail or grudge.”  Éowyn clasped his hand, “Without this oath there can be no partnership between a rider and mount and no love to go beyond all courage and strength.”  He heard her laugh softly.  “They know and remember our injustices but they will forgive if we make but the slightest effort of understanding…they are nobler creatures than we.” 

Éowyn patted Thorn’s side again.  “This oath means everything, means survival in a field of battle, for the horse that is your friend will defend you with hoof and tooth if you lie wounded, will die for you and drive itself to the ground for you.  It is love, it is trust, it is being bound beyond word or action, bound heart to heart.”

Like a joining…a marriage…  He sensed her silent agreement at the comparison and swallowed.  Faramir held her closer as she repeated softly,

“It is an oath of trust and love…” This is what she’d meant in his dream so long ago; his dream-Éowyn had wished him to discover this, to know that the concept behind the Rohirrim’s most important and sacred of myths was trust.  Trust and love, the things he’d fought so hard to earn from both her and her brother…and finally had.

She murmured, “Our horses are our people though they walk on four legs, do you understand?”

“Yes.”  Oh, yes…  He understood.

Éowyn was quiet for a long moment before she whispered, “Though you are from the South, you will be of us when we wed, joined in bonds that last forever.”  She smiled and took his hand to press it to Thorn’s flank.  “Feel him?  He trusts us to sit on his back with no bridle or saddle, nothing stops him from throwing us to the earth save his kind heart and willingness to serve.  That bond of trust and love, once won outlasts any bit or leather strap or any trapping you put on my hand to show I am yours in your City.  In full love and trust, we need neither, him and I.”  She smiled, “It is no insult to be compared to him.”

Faramir spoke thickly, “I understand.”

Éowyn sighed deep, content and brought his hand to her lips to kiss it.  “Good.”

He held her to his front, weakly jesting, “And if I promise it will be a pretty trapping?”  Éowyn laughed and turned her head so that they could kiss. 

Again he heard her content, felt her fingers wrapped around his as she murmured placidly.  “Whatever you wish it to be.”

They sat Thorn in silence for a little while with Faramir often raising his head to the stars and staring at them in curiosity.  They did not seem different but he felt himself to have changed and it made him slightly uneasy; he shifted and felt how his surcoat, one he’d worn many times, seemed strange.  It was not too tight or too loose, not any different at all, but it felt off somehow in a way that he could not place.  Perhaps it is I…  What would he be when he walked back into his City?  A Ranger, a Prince, a man of the Mark?  All of these?  He frowned, then forgot his unease as Éowyn sighed and put her leg back over Thorn’s neck. 

“We should let him be.”

He nodded and she slid to the ground.  Thorn raised his head to look at them as Faramir dismounted.  The grey turned, coming to face him with ears pricked, sniffing his front with quivering lips and bright eyes.  Voice low, feeling himself in part playful and melancholy, he asked with an affected growl, “What do you want?”

***

Éowyn smiled at once.  Faramir was many things: a man of certain, unequaled perception, of noble patience, of great learning…but he is not a horseman.  Her smile widened as she read the horse’s body language, his erect ears, his eyes alert and focused upon Faramir—in fact his entire focus rested on her Prince, aligned to face his rider from hoof to tail.  Before she’d said Thorn liked him; it was quite true and she remembered how the gelding had looked for his Lord when she’d taken him from his stall in Edoras.  Just a short while ago he’d been apprehensive when she’d mounted, ears and eye quickly turning to the unwitting Faramir for guidance, the muscles in his back twitching under her weight.  I doubt I would have been carried with much enthusiasm had he not joined me so swiftly…

Now she put her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter.  Faramir was petting the horse absently as he asked, “Do you wish to go back?”

“Yes.”  She was smiling, unable to help it, charmed by the scene in front of her.  Standing before Faramir, Thorn nosed his arm, then shoulder and when neither provoked a reaction, the horse pawed the ground, asking for attention.  When he did not get more than a pat still, the gelding took a step forward and his eyes alighted on the bit of crimson ribbon tied about Faramir’s arm, the ends swinging gently.  Éowyn laughed silently into her hand, guessing what was on the grey’s mind.

An instant later she laughed aloud with pure delight as Thorn reached out to grasp the ribbon in his teeth and pulled it free, leaving it to dangle and flop from his lips.  “Hey…” Thorn bobbed his head with enthusiasm for the jest when Faramir reached for it, making him unable to grab it.  Her love turned to her to complain in bemusement, “He’s got my ribbon.”

She burst into giggles and exclaimed, “Well, fetch it back!”  He still did not see what was so terribly obvious to her.  Thorn wanted to play with her love, which meant he liked him greatly.  Éowyn watched them interact, Faramir still woefully ignorant of the horse’s entreaties for play—Thorn took a step back, head down, dangling the ribbon with his eyes fixed intelligently upon the man that stood before him.  When Faramir reached for the flopping bit of fabric, Thorn lifted his head too high for him to grasp it and shook his nose up and down violently.  His dark eyes were spirited and glinting with naughtiness as the ribbon was flung back and forth to snap and pop airily.  The horse’s desire for merriment was clearly seen even in the dim starlight. 

“He won’t let me, he’s being contrary.”  She laughed again as Faramir said morosely, “I was going to treasure it forever…now he’ll probably eat it.”

Éowyn smiled warmly, touching his arm in reassurance.  “You’ll get others.  I promise.”

 He looked delighted at her simple vow, “But this one would remind me of this day…” She could see the gleam of his smile in the starlight.  “This wonderful day.”

“Was it so wonderful?”

Faramir put his arms about her waist and pulled so that she swayed to him and kissed her firmly, passionately.  “Very.”  His grey eyes radiated happiness and she felt her heart melt. 

“I’m glad…” He kissed her again, then a great shove from behind made them both yelp in surprise and stagger.  Their pleasant moment was broken and the reason why stood near—Thorn had pushed Faramir’s back with his heavy, cumbersome head to regain his attention.  Éowyn laughed as her Prince scowled at the gelding.  Undeterred, Thorn just flipped his nose, making the ribbon bounce temptingly, trying to get Faramir to come for it.  He looked at her and chuckled as she declared, “He’s jealous.”

“Ah, he will have to learn not to be.”  He held her again, kissing her neck, her collarbone with soft, heated presses, one hand moving on her breast.

Éowyn leaned against him, enjoying his caresses; they made her want to beg him to never stop.  She heard her voice made soft and breathy with pleasure, “That feels good…so good.”  She shivered in growing enjoyment, feeling again how her body reacted, how she softened in response to his touch, unable to move away and waiting for the pleasure she was sure would come.  The darkness around them only intensified her senses.  She could smell his familiar smell—leather, the wind and stone of the City that clung to his surcoat, now horse, too; feel his heat against her; on her breast, the slightest movements of his fingers hardened her nipple and made tingles go down her legs.

His reply was deep, satisfied with what he wrought in her and what she knew he could feel.  “Good…”

Éowyn peered over his shoulder at the stars, feeling terribly content.  I wonder what they look like from the Court of the Fountain…would they be clearer from the height?  She wanted to know, wanted to lie with him, be beneath the stars in the well-ordered gardens of the City.  It was a new, strange desire.

He pulled back to smile at her, then lowered his mouth to hers.  For a moment it was pure bliss, then she cried out in alarm as they were shoved again and he stumbled against her.  In that instant it was uncertain whether they would fall or stand, whether Faramir would pitch atop her and mash her to the ground or no; they swayed and she shuffled backwards, struggling to handle her balance and his.  Behind them, Thorn snorted loudly then she heard his hoof pawing the dry earth and Éowyn began to laugh.  Hugging Faramir to brace herself with his solid form, she held onto his front as they both steadied; he’d finally gotten his long legs under him and they were spread, feet planted firmly, his arms grasping hers to hold her up with him.  Secure again, she laughed long and with relish, shaking, gasping out, “He wants to play and he won’t stop until you do it!”

Faramir released her and turned, asking curiously, “Play?  He’s just being perverse,” His voice turned amused, “As usual.”

Éowyn went speechless.  You do not know, cannot see, still?  He didn’t and she was appalled.  The game the grey offered was an early one played with foals, their leads and halters tugged and thrown about, gnawed, stomped and otherwise known to make them harmless for all time.  Now Thorn sought to play it again with Faramir.  Éowyn smiled, recovering as she watched her love try again and again to pull the ribbon from the horse’s tightly gritted teeth, frowning and muttering with growing exasperation.  Finally she could take no more and laughed, stepping forward to show him how.  “Here.  Watch…if he’ll play with me.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”  Thorn’s playfulness became more wary when she reached for the ribbon, his ears flicking to Faramir, but he let her grasp it.  Éowyn pulled, then released and made a great fuss, laughing and crying appreciation for the jest.  Thorn nodded his big head powerfully in joy at completion of the game, shoving the ribbon at her, then pulling it back and making it flop and flap wildly to her laughter, cries of delight and exaggerated praise of his cleverness.

“What are you doing?”  Faramir moved to stand beside her, smiling in amusement while he observed them.  He sounded very inquisitive, as he always did when given an opportunity to learn something new.

“Look!”  Éowyn reached again, but the horse just bobbed his head cheerfully as if to include and exclude her at once, then ignored her in favor of extending his nose, the ribbon fluttering, to put it near to Faramir’s lowered hand.  The gelding stayed that way with his eyes fixed on her love’s hand; Thorn’s long bony face, a face capable of little expression, nonetheless conveyed hope and a childish eagerness. 

“See?”  She smiled; Thorn was nearly putting the end of the ribbon in Faramir’s palm to make him understand and play, occasionally pulling back to flip his nose and make the slender line of fabric dance enticingly.  “He likes you, not me.”  Faramir looked touched.  Éowyn instructed, “When you get it, you must make a great commotion for him…he loves it; horses love laughter, they understand it.”  She smiled at the gelding as he nudged Faramir’s hand earnestly.  “He likes to make you laugh, to make a game with you to show how much he likes you, how much you are a friend to him.”

He glanced at her, “Like this?”

Éowyn smiled and nodded as Faramir grasped the ribbon.  Thorn pulled back and her love let it slip through his fingers with an animated cry of mock dismay.  She laughed and the gelding’s big ears pricked and he nodded his head in delight before offering the ribbon to Faramir again.  “He’s like a child…he loves to be fussed over, the louder the better.”  The two played for several minutes while she watched, her chest filling again with a great sense of content, so deep and full she felt she might burst open with joy with the wellness in all she saw and heard.  Faramir sounded so happy, his laughter and playful shouts ringing like bells in the quiet night.  It is like he’s never made such a friend…

He looked to her, pausing in the game.  “I’ve never played with a horse before, just ridden them.”  He smiled, “I’d never shod one before I rode here.”  Faramir pointed down at Thorn’s forelegs.  “That one right there.  It’s still there.”  He sounded pleased.

Éowyn could not conceive of such a life.  She answered softly, saddened by what he’d passed by.  “Then you have missed much.” Watching in silence, Éowyn smiled again—it looked that Faramir would get another chance. 

Only listening to her with half an ear, captivated, Faramir had just laughed and nodded; Thorn had lowered his head so that he had to reach down and just as he did, the horse lifted it too high, nodding his muzzle so that the ribbon flapped tauntingly.  Her love growled, “Let me get it!”  In response, Thorn took several strides backward, head lowered, nose extended.  Faramir followed and before he got close enough to strike with a rear, the gelding jumped up, pawing the air in play.  He came down, then wheeled and trotted around them with his tail held high; his gait was proud and effortless, hooves floating over the dusty ground in strange grace for such a usually ungainly animal.  Thorn stopped and snorted a challenge, letting the ribbon flutter in the wind of his passage.  His ears were forward, attention fixed steadily on Faramir.

 Éowyn laughed again—the seasoned warhorse was acting like a week-old colt.  She smiled, looking at the gelding with adoration for the lighthearted way her love acted and sounded.  He loves you…and she was suddenly overcome with vast affection for the animal.  Her dear Prince had rarely been so filled with the joy he deserved.

Faramir looked at her and his grin flashed in the dimness; it outshone the brilliant lights of the stars.  No…

“He does love you.”  Éowyn reached for the ribbon and Thorn sidestepped, offering it again to his man.  His man…oh, yes.  She smiled, not begrudging what she saw—the first growth of love between horse and rider that made duty not duty at all but willing aid and transformed all service between man and beast into recreation and never labor.  “You do not see with my eyes.”  He was smiling broadly; Thorn’s neck was arched, tail lifted almost to curl over his back as he loped in a small circle around them, every stride that of cavorting glee.  Dust rose as the gelding slid to a halt and half-reared, still well away from striking distance.  Watching him, she found new support for her argument, stating, “He takes care not to hurt you when he does that, see?  He knows himself stronger and larger and he takes the same care a mare does with her foal…is that not love?”

 “Are you calling me his foal?”  Sounding bemused, Faramir reached for the ribbon and the old horse danced back, nostrils flared and eyes bright.  This time her Prince strode to meet the gelding, cutting him off as he circled with his arms out to catch him.  Thorn wheeled, hooves digging deeply into the dry earth, and galloped around them widely, changing directions twice, planting his feet and sliding into a dusty halt before charging forward again.  The gelding bucked high as he circled them, his shoes glinting in the starlight.  Thorn was blowing and snorting with effort and enjoyment as he slowed to a prancing trot.  His dark tail still flagged gaily as Faramir laughed in appreciation, then sighed, asking with a smile.  “How do I make him stop?”

Éowyn shook her head.  “It is your game, you make the rules.”

He raised both arms and took a step forward to get the horse’s attention, then stood still and commanded, “Thorn, whoa.”  Thorn slowed and halted, pale sides moving with his fast breathing.  The crimson ribbon still fluttered from his dark muzzle as Faramir extended his hand, “Come.”  The grey took two strides backwards and bobbed his head, wishing to play still.  He frowned.  “No, it’s late.”

Thorn just nodded more and nickered in a spirited, joyful fashion, inviting him to continue the game.  Éowyn smiled, still adoring the horse, “He doesn’t want to stop.”

***

“I know.”  Faramir frowned, “Ná, Thorn.”  He reached for the ribbon but the horse backed and dipped his nose to shake the bit of fabric that dangled from it, thinking he wanted to play still.  He tried to think of a way to cease without hurting the animal’s feelings and approached slowly, not reaching for the ribbon. Thorn eyed him warily, but stood.  “Good lad…it’s late…”

He pressed his palm to Thorn’s forehead, visualizing a swift sunrise, the first sleepy flight and chirping of birds as light grew on green grass, making dew sparkle…tomorrow…tomorrow I will play…

The horse stood very still and when he tugged the ribbon, Thorn released it.  Faramir grimaced—it was wet on the end, discolored with saliva and the juices of chewed grass.  He praised softly, stroking the grey’s neck, which was warmed from his exertions.  “Thank you.”  Faramir meant far more than thanks for the return of a bit of fabric.  Smiling, he murmured, “Thank you for playing with me.”  Thorn pushed his head against him, stepping forward so that he was touching Faramir’s side.  Pleased, he rubbed the gelding’s withers, leaning against his bulk to scratch the other side of his body, rubbing the angle of his shoulder before stepping back to slap his neck.  Thorn snuffled a faint voicing of expectation and turned to face him as he bobbed his nose and reached for the ribbon with lips popping in eagerness to grab it a second time. 

Faramir closed his hand over the wet thing, scolding gently.  “No, no more.”  When he turned to Éowyn, Thorn nickered again, this time very soft and plaintive.  It touched his heart and he groaned, turning back.  “Ná.  Tomorrow.”

Éowyn took his hand and said firmly, “Min, Thorn, Faramir is min.”  Faramir laughed and let her lead him back to the light of the fires.  When they’d reached the soft orangish glow, music coming again to break the soft stillness of their footsteps and breathing, Thorn whinnied shrilly.  He glanced back but could see nothing; his eyes had already adjusted to the illumination of the torches and bonfires.  Éowyn hugged his arm, “Don’t worry, he will be there tomorrow.”

“I know.”  Faramir smiled but his thoughts wandered farther ahead and he thought with great sorrow of his own much duller horse, the one he’d ridden to the Mark.  He’d never played with it, never given more than a pat, treat or kind word, had always thought that was enough; it had never occurred to him to do more and the gelding had never tried for more…that I’d recognized.  He chuckled faintly and with little mirth.  It will be an uneventful ride home…  Faramir glanced back into the blackness of the night, thinking with dark humor that he had yet a new reason to not wish to depart from Rohan.  Of course, Éomer would grant me the horse if I named the reason…it is not as if Thorn is a creature of great worth bearing noble beauty.  My own horse is more comely.  He laughed to himself, then sobered.  Thorn’s worth was more lasting—the worth of friendship won. 

He would have to discover why he stayed soon, probe his heart and learn his reasoning.  I want my life…but not yet.  Faramir frowned, troubled as they walked back into the crowd.  Thorn was not the mount of a nobleman with his scars and uncomely big head and ears, his willful disposition.  No, he is where he belongs…  He imagined the stables just outside the Citadel—they were lavish, as they had to be to house the mounts of Knights, honored noblemen and the King, but they would be terribly cramped in the mind of Thorn who roamed wide fields, whose eyes lifted to endless horizons.  The gelding was rarely even asked to stand tied; his boundaries were rivers, mountains, not wood walls.  He remembered the Thorn’s anger to be confined even in the great, fortified corral.  It would be cruel, I think, to make him live within the City and spend his days without the allowance of cropping his own grass…  Faramir sighed deeply.  I would not be the friend he thinks I am.  But…  He knew at once that he did not want to say goodbye to the horse.  Turning to Éowyn, he asked, “What does a horse think of a stable?” 

She looked at him like her were mad.  “Why?”

“I’m curious and you know more than I.”

She bit her lip as a smile came to her mouth, making it bow and curve as she laughed delightedly, “You want him to take back with you?”  He nodded, slightly embarrassed to be read so easily.  Éowyn’s smile faded, “They do not like them.  Imagine standing in one room…and there is naught in it but a cup of water, a dish for your meals, which come but twice a day, and a plain bed.  You have a window and you can see others like you and even outside where the sun shines and many things are happening, but you cannot go out and if you call to anyone, they ignore you.”  She sighed, squeezing his hand.  “It is not pleasant to their thinking and rightly so.”

He agreed, discouraged.  “I thought it would be cruel.”  A new thought struck him.  But in Ithilien, could I not have him stabled as I wish…perhaps in a great stone-walled paddock?  Faramir frowned.  Ithilien was but empty land without so much as a brick laid in the making of his house, never mind stables.  He’d not even thought of stables yet.

The voice inside him spoke up again, more impatiently, more willfully.  But when it is laid, I could do as I like…I will be Lord, no one else.  He supposed he could house Thorn for a short while in the seventh circle—there, he could visit him easily no matter if he had a full day of duties to Elessar or the Council.  If I take time to ride him…or I could have a boy exercise him…he smiled.  If Thorn would tolerate that.  Faramir laughed softly, “They will look at me as if I were mad with that horse and the luxuries I would grant him.  He is not the mount of a Lord.”  Indeed, the homely Thorn would look exceedingly out of place in the seventh circle stables.

“No, he’s scruffy and rough.”  Éowyn smiled.  She turned to him, asking intently, “But is he the one you want?”

“Yes, oh, yes.  I think riding another would be very dull.”  Spirits much lifted, he stopped and pulled her close.  Faramir looked down into her pretty blue eyes, seeing her pupils large from the darkness.  His movement had been swift, the pulling of her body to his without a word, thought or act of forewarning, yet there was no fear in her eyes, her face, or her soul—he’d conquered it…and with such simple weapons.  Months ago she would have either been paralyzed with fright, stiff as wood, or had fought her way from his arms in violence; even weeks ago she would have been shy, waiting to watch and see what he might do.  He swallowed and felt tears prick, overcome by his own happiness. 

Her hand lifted to touch his brow.  “What is it?”

He laughed faintly, “Nothing…this was a most wonderful day…the best of all I can remember.  The best of my days.”  Faramir lowered his head against her, to smell her hair and just lean.  Her arms pulled from his embrace and came up to hold him nearer as she said, voice soft,

“No…it can’t be…”

“It is.”

Éowyn repeated herself more firmly and lifted his chin so that their eyes met.  “No, it can’t be.”  When he just looked at her, not understanding, she murmured, “I won’t let it be, Faramir.”  Her arms tightened around his neck and her voice rang with determination.  “You deserve more, you will have more.”  She pulled him down and her kiss was equally determined.  All I can give, I give to you…in return.  Touching his brow to hers, he smiled and let her feel how happy he was in that moment, how utterly content.  Éowyn leaned up to kiss him in reply, a gesture of her own happiness. 

Eventually, Faramir looked to her tent; it was alight from within and he saw movement.  Arwen had retired already.  He groaned, murmuring, “I don’t want to let you go…”

“I know.”  Éowyn hesitated, then kissed his cheek, intimately soft, lingering.  Her inner voice was shy, murmuring soon…as she pressed his hand.

He stepped back, smiling to reassure her, marveling that even the hesitance he could sense was but fleeting and trivial.  “I know.”

Éowyn still held onto his hand.  After a moment, she let go, saying, “Sleep well.”

“I sleep cold, alone but for a tent full of filthy men and on the hard ground…how can I sleep well?”  He grinned.

She laughed, “I don’t think the High Queen would take to being tossed out of her bed for the likes of you, my simple, handsome Steward.”

“Ná.”  Éowyn smiled and he watched her enter the tent, watched her shape move against the light cloth and heard her voice lightsome and laughing at some words of Arwen’s.  Faramir turned and sighed.  He was wearied in mind more than body and wondered if he could sleep so soon.  Taking the damp ribbon from his pocket, he stepped into the deserted tent where his bedroll lay and placed it deep in one of his bags so that it would not be lost.  That done, Faramir wandered out again, smiling at the music, feeling himself at ease as most of the gigantic crowd had long gone to their beds.  The dancers had dwindled and the circle was much smaller now and populated by the much more intoxicated, but still merry.  Faramir walked past many dark tents, many dying fires and a few snoring men who lay where they’d dropped.

 A few contests went on still, lit by firelight—wrestling, men throwing short-handled axes at wooden shields, a huge man lifting a boulder high to open-mouthed onlookers.  He found it all strange and incredible and he began to wonder how he would fare at the different trials.  Faramir smiled to himself.  If he but mentioned the desire to Gaer or Tondhere, he would be dragged to each one and made to compete.  Perhaps he could win the respect of more of his northern brothers by doing so…at least they would respect the efforts…  He glanced back at the tent in which Éowyn stayed.  At least it could earn me more ribbons…  With a flush of boastfulness, he remembered her pride, her forceful acclaim and title of champion.  That, I think, I shall do.  Faramir vowed to try his hand at as many as he could enter, thinking shamelessly, I want to hear that again in her voice…

Laughing at himself and his foolish pride in her pride, he returned to his own tent and untied his bedroll, laying his head on one of his bags.  Gaer and another woke him briefly as they entered, muttering and smelling of ale.  He heard them snickering and closed his eyes again, hoping he would be undisturbed.  One trod on his ankle and he hissed in pain, jerking it back.  There was a muttered apology, then a giggle, “Eower scancas eart lang, toss lang, Hordere.”  The Riders giggled with him.

They are not, Faramir thought irritably, you’re simply clumsy, Rohir…

An unfamiliar voice asked, near breathless with cackles, “Hordere, hwa scrud dest eower Ides hæbbe onslepan in?”  Faramir bit his tongue, tempted to snap something back to the indecent question. 

There was a burst of rowdy laughter and he heard Gaer hushing the other Rider and snickering.

“Náhting…Faramir, ná?  Gea?”  The Rohirrim howled with laughter.  He did not respond, still feigning sleep and the Riders soon quieted and to his surprise, left him be entirely so that soon Faramir fell back into real slumber. 

He woke but one other time, feeling as though he’d forgotten something, but the feeling was vague, merely troubling and he slid into sleep again with only the barest of murmurs.

***

Undressing, Éowyn watched Arwen brush her puppy with amusement.  She removed Rusco’s leather collar, wiping dust from it and the lead, then laid them nearby for the morning.  It was only when the Queen had changed to a simple shift and lifted the puppy up to sit on the cot that she realized, “You’re letting that filthy little beast sleep with us?”

The elven woman laughed, “Since Estel I’ve grown used to a beast in my bed.”  Arwen stroked the dog’s tan flank, “And he’s not filthy, he’s been washed and brushed.  Just as clean as you.”

 She smiled, jesting as she brushed her still-damp and still dark tresses out, “Is that so?”  Éowyn spied a few long, coal-black hairs in her brush and smiled in a more secret pleasure. 

“Aye.”  Arwen laughed as she climbed into the cot, having to push the eager Rusco aside with a gentle hand.  “I wouldn’t know how to sleep without a great deal of groaning and growling and hair against me.”

Éowyn laughed again, thinking more nervously about sharing her bed for more than a night or two and without the innocence Faramir had thus far submitted to, about how she would live in her marriage bed.  She hesitated, glancing to the Queen.  I could ask…  But that would be prying, certainly, and she did not wish to do that.  Éowyn felt herself cowardly, but unable to help it.  Another time… 

She sat on the simple but thankfully comfortable and well-bedded cot, sliding her feet beneath the cool coverlets; Rusco came to her and stood on her breast and licked her cheek and wagged his tail under the blankets, making her laugh then push him gently away.  Arwen blew out the candles so that the tent was dark and quiet and when she lay down, the dog went back to her.  Éowyn felt briefly awkward, never having shared a bed with another woman.  She turned her thoughts elsewhere.  I can’t wait for tomorrow…she smiled eagerly against her pillow and concentrated upon falling into sleep.

There was the familiar sound of hooves, but it grew to hoof beats numberless so that they were thunder, an endless thunder broken by screaming and a strange roaring…suddenly the rhythmic feel of galloping hooves and straining muscle beneath her stopped.  She fell, seeing the blackened and churned ground come at her so swiftly it was terrifying.  Éowyn couldn’t breathe or move at the impact, rolling, curling into a ball, hearing hooves around her, the high, whistling breaths of horses driven past their endurance. 

Someone was crying out, shouting commands and their voice was strong at first, then coming with greater and greater fear as it cracked and shook, as its owner lost their courage to stand.  The words she couldn’t understand but the voice was so like to Faramir’s that it hurt her to hear such panic in it.  Another answered and it, too, was familiar, her brother’s deep tones strained and rasping and filled with fear as he tried to shout above the ever-present roaring.

The voice, her brother’s, Faramir’s, the other’s wanted her to rise, begged her, demanded it of her. 

I can’t…she couldn’t move, couldn’t move… 

I can.  She’d just fallen from her horse, not a cliff; her body was not broken, only bruised.  Not understanding, Éowyn struggled to answer, to rise but she was held down by invisible bonds, held down by a giant hand that would not let her stand.

She thought…Not again…please, no…and realized it was no thought of hers.

The voice came anew, desperate, not at all her brother’s.  And it was not Faramir’s but another’s, so like his, so like to his that it sounded as his.  She’d heard it once before but not like this, not with such terror and desperation.  He cried out again, pleading, but Éowyn could not understand though she strove to, realizing that she must. 

This time he called her name, “Éowyn…White Lady…”

And she called back with her throat tight, guessing, feeling her heart go cold at the guess, for he was not alive, not here, could not be here…  “Boromir?”

A low snarling awoke her and Éowyn jerked up gasping, frightened still.  Instinctively, wishing comfort and calling for the one who gave it, she whispered, “Faramir?”

“At ease.”  Arwen’s eyes glowed in the starlight.  It was dark in the tent.  Wind blew, rustling the cloth. 

She was sweating, her limbs trembly.  “What…what is it?”  Faramir?  Éowyn refused to even think the name she’d cried in her dream.

The Queen clasped her arm, voice soft.  “Be still, there is no danger to us.  You do not have to fear.”

She sat up further, straining.  A low noise made her jump, made her think again of the sounds as she’d bathed, made her think of Gríma…  “What is it?”  Éowyn heard her voice quavering in her timid question, “Who is it?”

“It is but a shade of Man…” The Queen caressed Rusco; the puppy’s small body was rigid as he stood between them, tail between his legs, shaking, cowering, but growling fiercely.  “He can do us no harm.”

A shade of Man?  A spirit, she means, a ghost.  Éowyn felt her hair stand on the nape of her neck, felt her skin prickle as the dog growled again.  She could see nothing.  Whose spirit?  She shuddered.

Arwen repeated, “He can do no harm.”  The feeling faded as Rusco whined then relaxed.  The Queen soothed, “He is gone.  I saw many in the City, they mean no harm and have no power.”

In the City?  They were far from Minas Tirith.  Confused, Éowyn nodded, lying down again as Rusco whimpered and Arwen spoke lightheartedly, comforting the little dog with many caresses and what sounded like soft exclamations of bravery in the elven tongue.  Whose spirit?  She didn’t wish to guess, ever.  Closing her eyes and hugging her pillow tightly, she thought of Faramir beside her, remembering the feel of his warmth, the way the bed sloped and how his arm felt heavy over her side; she concentrated, but it was of little use to imagine what she knew was not there. 

Faramir…?  Was it possible her fear hadn’t disturbed him?  Éowyn bit her lip, wondering.  Perhaps the dreams and thoughts of so many had been as a forest between them and he’d been unable to sense her.  Eventually, still wondering, she fell back into sleep.

***

Faramir rose earlier than his bedmates and eyed the sleeping forms of men between him and the bit of sunlight he could see through the tent.  He sighed, then abandoned his pleasant notions of courtesy, clambering indifferently over slumbering, snoring and moaning Rohirrim to the tent flaps, snatching a shirt and a pair of trousers as he went.  Faramir paused over his bags, eyeing his sable surcoat of the City, then the green and brown of the Mark.  No, he smiled, I will see if she asks again for the White Tree…  It might be slightly manipulative of him, but he wanted to hear the words, to sense her desire.  I am a fool…he left behind both surcoats of the White Tree and White Horse.

He changed in the cool morning air, running his fingers through his tangled hair and fetching a handful of grain from his saddlebags.  He’d made a promise, after all, and though Faramir was not entirely certain if Thorn could remember, he could and he did not want the guilt—the horse’s innocent play had been too enjoyable. 

The dry grass was dewy, wetting his boots as he walked into the empty fields.  For a moment Faramir stopped to turn back and look at the sleepy festival.  The colorful banners stirred gently, Éomer’s standard rising high into the still morning air, the gold of its staff and thread of its border glowing in the sun as the White Horse moved.  Smoke rose from cooking fires; there was the sound of dogs barking, voices singing, calling.  It was peaceful, simple and he felt a rush of contentment, humming lightly as he walked on to find Thorn.

The grey lifted his head as Faramir approached and then flipped his nose, nickering a greeting as he ambled forward to meet him.  Pleased, he smiled, “Good morning” and held out his hand, on which sat the small mound of oats.  Eyes aglow, Thorn dove for the offered grain and in his eagerness his dark, shoving muzzle soon spilled half the pale, flattened kernels to the dusty ground.  He then licked and snuffled Faramir’s hand and sleeve before searching among the dried stems of grass beneath himself for the last bits.  Faramir laughed at the horse’s greed, patting his thick neck with a sticky palm.  “Next time I’ll bring more.”

 Once the gelding had assured himself that no more grain was forthcoming, sniffing both hands and pockets, then giving the earth a quick snort, he pushed up against Faramir.  He smiled, “What do you want now?”  Without Éowyn to interpret, he watched the horse closely, trying to read all the signals he was sure he was missing.  Did Thorn want to be scratched or something else?  Guessing, Faramir scratched, following the gelding’s movements to itchier spots: under his jaw, his neck and the slopes of his shoulders.

His fingers were black with dirt and threatening to cramp when the horse pulled away, pushing at him with his nose and raising one hoof to paw clumsily at the air and bump his leg.  Thorn’s eyes were bright as he bobbed his head and pushed his nose against his stomach again, prompting Faramir to think that the gelding wished to play.  But what?  He had no ribbon or rope.  We will have to make a new game…he found the idea very agreeable.

He retreated as the horse advanced, ducking away abruptly with a slightly embarrassed but lighthearted laugh.  For an instant he hesitated, self-conscious, and asked himself, what am I doing?  But then Thorn tossed his head, making his dark mane fly and reared, striking out with one foreleg.  In response, Faramir retreated again, moving behind the horse’s flanks, trusting him not to kick, realizing that in this game he was trusting very much that the burly gelding would act with gentleness—the stout, strong grey could easily kill him.

Thorn spun, wide and a bit lumbering, and then charged him at a quick, springy trot, his neck arched, ears pricked in eagerness, tail rising to flag.  The horse’s sense of happy mischief overcame both his embarrassment and cautions and Faramir chuckled at the waggish gleam in the gelding’s small brown eye.

“You’ll have to be quicker…!”  He sprang easily out of the way and cuffed the grey’s muscled hindquarter in jest as he did. 

Thorn wheeled and charged anew, this time snaking his heavy head out to get him with flattened ears and a harmlessly fierce spark in his eye.  Faramir laughed and with an instant’s notion, he stepped aside again, but this time stepped back to grasp the dark mane.  Boldly, he used the animal’s momentum, swinging aboard, then letting himself slither over the grey’s broad back to land in a crouch on the other side of him.  Faramir watched as the gelding trotted in the opposite direction and he grinned, delighted; he’d never done that before.

Thorn skidded to a dusty halt, turning to look at him.  His long, heavy ears flipped rearward to scrutinize his empty back, then forward and his expression held such astonishment that Faramir burst into great guffaws, his chest hurting with his laughter.  He gasped, bent to brace against his knees, eyes watering, “I said you’d have to be quicker!”

The grey huffed, blowing through pinkened nostrils and reared, springing powerfully up and forward from his haunches, moving from a standstill to full gallop in one stride.  Faramir shifted on the balls of his feet, waiting until the perfect moment.  Half-crouched, he managed to evade the thickset, muscular animal with a quick leap to the side, rolling and gathering himself up again as the gelding swept by, head low, hooves digging into the earth.  The horse spun, grunting with effort as he threw up his hind legs, bucking and lunging in play, crumbles of dry dirt flinging high, then showering down to patter widely over the faded grass.  Thorn came to a halt and tossed his big head, licking his lips and pricking his ears to stare at Faramir in cheerful expectancy.

He grinned and slapped his thighs, “Come!”  This time Thorn only trotted forward, but it was a beautiful trot, high-stepping and light-footed with glee.  He swerved close and Faramir used his trick again, grabbing a handful of mane to spring up onto the grey’s back, but suddenly that back lifted beneath him as Thorn’s head dropped and he lunged forward to buck a second time.  Unbalanced and with nothing to grasp onto, Faramir was knocked sprawling to the grass.  Around him, there were the sounds and vibrations of hooves as the horse circled him with the same proud, beautiful gait, tail and head held high in triumph. 

He groaned and rose slowly, admitting with a laugh as he brushed himself off.  “You win.”  Prancing to a stop, Thorn bobbed his head cheerfully, then made as if to rush him anew, but Faramir raised his arms, “Whoa!” and the gelding halted several feet away in a small cloud of dust, his ears pricked and alert.

Thorn obviously remembered their last game.  He praised immediately and in a lavish tone, “Good lad, Thorn”, wanting this simple, vital rule to be reinforced.  Faramir stretched out his hand and Thorn came to him, sniffed his palm hopefully, and then pushed his head against Faramir’s chest for a scratch.  Helpfully rubbing behind the horse’s ears, he glanced back at the sleepy festival, then the open lands about them.  I have seen little of Rohan’s great fields…  “You want to explore?”

Thorn didn’t object to him pulling himself up, standing quietly as he scooted forward to more securely seat himself and took a handful of the dark, coarse mane.  He turned the gelding, clumsily pushing at Thorn’s grey neck and nudging him with his legs, as he had no harness with which to guide his mount in the traditional fashion.  The horse didn’t seem to mind and soon they were loping gently across the plain, up a hill, following the ridge of it so that Faramir could look far to the north and east.  Other horses lifted their heads from their grazing and nickered in friendly curiosity, but Thorn pinned his ears and tossed his head aggressively, not allowing them to come near. 

Look at me…I’m at his mercy…  Faramir supposed he should feel insecure without so much as a halter for control, but he did not.  Riding Thorn’s bumpy canter, looking between the grey’s big, black-tipped ears, he thought he’d never felt so secure on a horse, so relaxed and comfortable.  He patted the gelding’s neck, gripping lightly with his knees, using his legs the best he could to ask him to keep to the ridge and to maintain his lope.  He smiled, remembering Éowyn’s words, the oath of trust and love.  Perhaps he’d yet to swear an oath only to his mind; Thorn seemed quite ready to abide by his will and grant him the privilege of riding without bit or saddle, to play and treat him with the care that a mare showed her foal.  He murmured, patting the horse’s shoulder again.  “Good lad, Thorn, I thank you…” The grey’s ears flicked back in reply.  I shall repay you as well as I can…  He leaned low, grinning.  “How does a knotted rope sound to you?  I think we could get more use from it than a ribbon and there’s less chance I’ll be tossed to the dirt.”  Again the ears flicked; Thorn was listening, if not understanding.  He thought further, smiling and remembering toys he’d watched youths enjoying in the City streets, “A leather ball?  Would you like that?  I’m sure I could find one between here and Minas Tirith.”  Faramir stroked Thorn’s neck.  “You won’t like it in the City, but it won’t be for long, I promise…” The grey’s ears were tipped back, listening closely as he vowed.  “You’ll like Ithilien, you’ll have whatever you wish there.”

Perfectly at peace, he eyed the distant lands, wondering why the ground seemed so dark at the top of one rocky knoll.  There seemed to be nothing to throw a shadow and it did not look to be the mouth of a ravine.  Faramir clucked to the grey, urging him onward, keeping him at a much smoother lope as they climbed the steep, short hill.  He bent, frowning curiously at the ground as it turned from dry weeds and brownish dust to pale ashes and cinders, soot-covered rocks.

Thorn shied without warning, blowing loudly in alarm and he had to pull at his mane, very nearly spilled to the earth.  He nudged the horse onward and they crested the embankment; able to see over the knoll, his eyes widened.  The grass had been burned away in a great swath perhaps miles wide, the soil bared.  It was a bleak sight, black stems and sticks rising above the singed ground, the charred bones of what used to be thick brush.  He sobered, remembering Éomer’s talk of fires.  It seemed so long ago and he’d given it but little thought.

Thorn pawed the blackened ground and sniffed it; he shook his head and danced and Faramir felt the animal’s nervousness grow.  “Easy, let’s go back…” He rubbed his withers to comfort him.  The air smelled of ashes stirred from Thorn’s hooves, rising to fleck the gelding’s light legs and flanks as they retraced their path.  Glancing around himself, he spied something on the ground and squinted—it was the seared, twisted corpse of a hare that had been caught in the flames.  Some voice inside himself spoke immediately, crying a warning.  Don’t look at it!

Not heeding his possibly wiser side, Faramir felt his gut roil as he stared at the pitifully small lump of blackened bones and cooked flesh.  His legs tightened, unconsciously urging the balking Thorn closer as he gazed at the poor dead creature in gruesome fascination.  The rabbit was barely recognizable, no more than a charred, gnarled mass of bone, gristle and withered tissue.  He looked into the blackened eye sockets, seeing the gloom within, its face surrounded by dark, cracked skin that was tightly shrunken over its skull to hug the equally blackened bone, jaw gaped wide, teeth still white and gleaming.  It looked awful, tragic and he felt pity rise that the thing should have died in such pain.

Father… 

Suddenly he thought he might vomit, tasting sour, acid bile in the back of his throat, his stomach hitching and gathering itself even though he’d not yet eaten.  Faramir looked away, slumping and holding tightly to Thorn’s mane, focusing all his being on trying to purge the image from his mind.  Horribly, his nostrils filled with the smell of it, the thick and sweetish smell of overcooked, spoiling meat mixing with the harsh, biting scent of soot.  The smell coated his tongue as he tried to breathe slow and deep.  He gritted his teeth, eyes closed, ignoring it to breathe slowly, purposely, refusing to give into his belly’s slow rolling.  I will not!

But…Father…he moaned, sobs gathering in his quaking chest.  Faramir leaned low, resting his brow to Thorn’s neck, feeling his eyes burn and his heart twist painfully until he thought in desperate rebellion.  I don’t even care!  But he did and it was dreadful the way his imagination all too eagerly provided him with the image of his father’s face enveloped in fire, of his hair burning, his skin turning black as his flesh cooked, his bones showing dried and brittle as his blood boiled away.  I don’t want to care…he never cared!

If he didn’t care, why did he not send me to Imladris?  Faramir moaned again, feeling a few hot tears slide down his cheeks.  He just wished to forget, to never think of his father, to pretend he’d not been told of Denethor’s fate, to pretend he’d never had a father just as he’d not had a mother.  Why…he struck his thighs, slamming his fists down on his upper legs, seeking distraction from his inner anguish in the flare of physical pain.

Thorn seemed to sense his distress and wheeled under him, turning his back on the blighted ground.  Terribly thankful, he leaned forward, clucking so that the horse went into a gallop, his strides lengthening, coming faster and faster as they fled down the hill and over the fields.  He breathed deeply of the sweet air, pushing away his grief, burying it in his gladness to get the smell of ashes, burned turf and death from his lungs.  Thorn was as eager as he was to get away from the grim and scorched tract of ground, running hard until Faramir sat up.  His voice was raspy with his struggle not to vomit or weep.  “Easy lad, whoa…” The horse slowed and halted, twitching his tail in wide sweeps, stamping his feet and impatiently awaiting a new command.

Faramir did not wish to end his morning outing with Thorn with such grimness.  This time he went a new direction, jogging slowly and bouncing gently on Thorn’s back.  Here was another part of the river, its banks not lined by trees, but exposed and Thorn waded into the water, lowering his head to drink in long gulps as though he wished to wash the taste and smell of the burned soil from his mouth.  Sympathizing, Faramir waited, but the gelding seemed content to paw and muddy the water, using his ponderous muzzle to fling it in great shimmering sweeps, launching tiny, ephemeral rainbows. 

He laughed, glad for a light-hearted moment, and slapped his mount’s neck.  When the grey began gathering himself, he realized too late that Thorn was planning to drop and roll.  “No…no!”  Faramir put his heels to the horse’s flanks but, bridleless, Thorn sank to his knees anyway and Faramir was forced to dismount in the river, stepping back into shallower water, his lower legs and boots soaked.  He got splashed a few times as the horse groaned in pleasure and rolled, rising to shake and blow loudly, water flying everywhere. 

Faramir was smiling again, though, amused and no longer sick at heart.  “That felt nice, didn’t it?”  His horse was streaked with orangish river-mud and dripping.  Thorn shoved him a few steps backward with his wet nose, making him stumble deeper into the water as though he were urging him to roll, too.  He laughed again, shaking his head.  “No, I think I’m wet enough, thank you…” With difficulty he remounted, taking care on Thorn’s slippery back; his boots hung heavy, dripping as the grey waded out of the river. 

He held to the Snowbourn’s course, watching the slow water, the blue sky, birds flitting around them, some singing, others feeding and feeling his tension drain anew.  Hearing shouts and following them in curiosity, Faramir found Rohirrim further down the river, some men clad only in glittering mail shirts, dripping wet and cheering.  Intrigued, he steered Thorn closer for a clue as to what they were doing.  To his initial disbelief, then delighted surprise they called out to him,

“Faramir!”

“Hordere!”

Sensing no aggression or mockery within their voices, he urged Thorn to stand near the group.  Very aware that he was riding completely without harness on a wet horse and of how absurd he would look within his own lands, he asked politely, bracing himself but knowing his heart to be full of hope anyway.  “Gea, min fréind?”

One of the Riders grinned, “Ge fleah god?”

Faramir nodded, perceiving at once that it was another contest, this time of swimming.  “Gea.”

“Ge willst fleotan mid us?”  The same Rider gestured to the river, then the men around him.  His words had been slow, but said not in a patronizing fashion, merely spoken with care in an effort to make sure that Faramir could understand.

“Gea, Ic wille.”  He slid from Thorn’s back, accepting the merry challenge with a growing smile.  The slow, gentle Snowbourn was more likened to a pond in comparison to the wide, powerful Anduin.  This river…  Faramir glanced to the Snowbourn, remembering rowing the day before—even against the current he’d not had to strain much.  He’d learned to swim in water more vigorous and more dangerous long ago.  But Éowyn…he felt a moment of intense disappointment that she was not here to witness and applaud regardless of his winnings or losses.  Faramir glanced back to the festival, to the light canvas of her tent and frowned, putting his hand back onto Thorn’s wet side, debating. 

One of the Riders called curiously, “Hordere?  Eart ge…?” 

He nodded and smiled, quickly deciding.  “Gea.  Ic eom.”  These Rohirrim, men that he did not even know, were so welcoming, so finally welcoming and friendly that he could not bring himself to refuse or call pause to fetch her.  Gently patting Thorn and allowing him to leave with a soft word of praise, Faramir began to strip.  There will be other times in which she can watch…  He grinned to himself.  I will make sure of it.

***

Éowyn lay abed a long while even after Arwen rose, dressed and took Rusco out, gazing in silence at the fabric walls of her tent and brooding.  The wind ruffled the cloth and the rising sun made it both brighter and hotter; she flung her blankets off restlessly.  Hugging her pillow, she bit her lip, worrying and wishing that she could simply forget the unease within her.  She didn’t know what to make of her dream and didn’t want to make anything of it.  It was nothing…a dream, no more…she reminded herself firmly that not all dreams came into being.

The sounds of alarmed shouts and thudding hoofbeats that halted right outside her tent and then Faramir bursting in completely startled her from her gloom; she sat up, staring at him in wonderment.  He was sopping wet, hair dripping, and grinning so widely that it amazed her.  “You missed it!”

Outside, Éowyn glimpsed a bridleless and saddleless Thorn before the flaps of her tent fell back.  “Missed what?”

“I won…I won three times!”  He was glowing, eyes alight, voice made higher than normal with elation.  Faramir both looked and sounded like a boastful lad.  Éowyn stared at him, a smile coming as she forgot her troubling dream.  His happiness washed over her like sunlight, the blinding brightness of joy and it swept away all her dark broodings in an instant.

“Won what?”  Smiling, she patted the cot, scooting to the side and folding her legs as she encouraged, “Come here and tell me!”

He did, sitting beside her and still wearing that great, irrepressible grin.  Faramir’s dark hair dripped onto the coverlets; drops of water ran down from his temples to quiver on the tip of his chin before falling to her blankets.  She smiled wider, unable to help it.  More water from his hair made the shoulders of his simple linen shirt turn transparent and Éowyn used the edge of her sheet to wipe some of the drops from his face and neck. 

Ignoring her minstrations, still aglow, Faramir began to explain in his charmingly youthful, excited voice.  “Swimming…I went out to find Thorn, to play with him like I promised, and when I was coming back along the river, some men were there swimming and they invited me to compete…and I beat them, I beat them all!”  She put her hand over her mouth, utterly delighted by his boyish giddiness.  He laughed, boasting in a way she was certain she’d never heard, “Even with a mail shirt and my boots on.  They were floundering and splashing like…lame cows!”  He laughed again in an enthusiasm so profuse it was childlike, “And it was so easy I could do it again in full armor!”

Éowyn was barely holding back her giggles, her palm clamped to her lips.  She’d never seen Faramir act this adorably—it was almost as though he were an entirely different man from the one she’d met so long ago in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, a different man who’d lived a different life untouched by grief or pain.  She smiled and avowed, “I wish I could have seen you!”

He took her arm, pulling her to her feet.  “Come, come, you can…they want me to compete in other contests and you have to watch me!”  Faramir finally paused for breath, his voice softening as he beamed down at her to smile and say with more intimacy.  “I want you to watch me, I want you to see me win, shout for me, call me your champion.”  His eyes dropped as he laughed, embarrassed, “I want more ribbons, to bear your token again today, every day.”

 “Of course you will…” Éowyn smiled in adoring reply, nodding and stepping forward to embrace him with her heart ablaze in happiness.  He was wet, instantly soaking through her nightgown, but he felt wonderful.  “What do you wish?”  She turned to eye her bags.  “I have a few more ribbons…some cloths…” Éowyn laughed, “I did not pack intending to hand out so many favors…”

Faramir teased softly, visibly pleased.  “You will have to remember for the future.”

“I will.”  She leaned up and kissed his wet mouth before quickly finding and pulling out a handful of ribbons and cloths for tributes.  “Now…will these satisfy?”

“Yes, good, good.”  He grinned, nodded swiftly and tugged impatiently at her wrist; Faramir would have taken her with him then and there but she remembered herself. 

“Wait, wait…” She was still clad in her shift.  He frowned and she laughed, crying out between her gasping, delighted laughter, “I have to get dressed first, you silly fool!”

He blinked and looked up and down as he took her in, then grinned at her in embarrassment, gesturing, “Well, hurry!”

“All right!”  She turned to her bags again, cackling helplessly all the while, then turned back, asking expectantly.  “Aren’t you going to leave?”

He made a face of incomprehension.  “What for?”

For the last sake of propriety…!  “Get out!”  Éowyn laughed and shoved him, feeling the coldness of the water against her palms mixed with the warmth of his body; his shirt was soaked now, clinging to his skin, the thin, translucent linen showing the warm tawny color of his flesh and darkness of his chest hair.  He looked terribly handsome and she admired him even as she pushed him out of the tent and yanked the flaps together.  Quickly rummaging through her bags, Éowyn dressed in men’s clothes; they were faster to put on and she had the feeling she would need more mobility this day.  She was lacing her dirty boots when her brother poked his head through the tent flaps, then walked in, a strange expression on his face. 

He gestured outside, asking in a low voice of smiling, teasing confidentiality, “Is Faramir drunk already this morn?”

She laughed, shaking her head firmly.  “No.”

“Are you certain?”  Her brother turned to peer outside.  “I’ve only seen him act like that when he was.”  Between a crack in the flaps she could see Faramir scratching and speaking enthusiastically to Thorn.  The gelding took a mouthful of his wet shirt and tugged it; Faramir laughed and pulled it back from the horse’s dark muzzle, gently scolding.

Tittering, as Thorn had left a great green stain, Éowyn closed her eyes for an instant to calm herself before nodding.  “Yes, I’m certain.”

Éomer’s lips twitched; he was clearly holding back laughter as he said further, “He told me he won…” He frowned, then grinned broadly, “Something.  It was all too fast for me to make sense of it.”

“It was swimming.  I heard, too.”  Her brother met her eyes and she saw her own gigantic amusement reflected there; Éowyn compressed her lips tightly, fighting the mirth that built within her chest. 

He sounded strained, battling his own laughter.  “How many times did he win?”

She closed her eyes.  “Three.”  Éomer had looked away; now he grinned at her in vast gaiety.  Éowyn giggled in their silence and an instant later they both broke into a great round of charmed laughter that they smothered with their hands until it left them, now red-faced and panting.  Heart much lightened as she caught her breath, Éowyn stood, braiding and then tying the ends of her hair with a bit of string. 

Éomer glanced at her and spoke in a lower, far more composed voice.  “I’m glad he’s happy.”

Touched, Éowyn did not answer immediately, still tying her braid; then she nodded, swallowing as her hands fell still and smoothed her shirt.  “Me, too.”  Obeying a heartfelt impulse, she turned and embraced her brother, holding him tightly.  Éowyn felt his surprise in the way he froze, then his arm’s slow rise to hold her in return. 

His voice had roughened when he responded to her wordless gesture of thanks, saying low and fervent.  “I am.”  Éomer laughed faintly into her ear and hugged her tight, so tight it hurt before releasing her and stepping back.  She smiled up, beaming at him in reward as she gathered her small armload of tokens.  Her brother frowned,  “What are those?”

“My fancy.”  Éowyn smiled, laughing at his blank expression, “Clearly you’ve never held any Lady’s, dearest brother, or you would know.”  He just frowned anew as she walked past him and flung the tent flaps back to open wide, half-turning to declare, “I have to go watch him now.”  Éowyn laughed again, offering, “Do you want to come, too?”

Éomer followed her.  He sounded like he was grinning again.  “I think so…yes.”  He smiled, ending simply and with what Éowyn heard with elated wonderment as a mix of amusement and sincere affection, “I don’t think I want to miss it.”  Unable to help herself, she hugged her brother once more and this time he laughed aloud.

Outside, Faramir was already mounted on Thorn; with quick, impatient nudges of his heels, he turned the grey to her and stretched down an eager hand.  “Here.  Get up.”

Éowyn took it and he all but pulled her off her feet, powerfully yanking her upwards in his enthusiasm.  She held tight to her tokens, seating herself on the gelding’s broad back and asking, “Where are we…?”  The grey bounded into a rough-paced canter; she was only half-settled.  Surprised, she yelped and grasped tightly to Faramir’s wet middle, holding on and reassured when he clasped her arms to his front.  His answer was drowned out in hoofbeats and the rush of wind from their passage, but she began to laugh again anyhow, caught up in his eagerness, his unconditional pleasure.  Éowyn leaned against his sodden back and didn’t ask again; it didn’t matter where they were going.

***

Forgotten and more bemused than grudging, as Faramir’s enthusiasm did not allow a grudge, Éomer watched them leave him behind, and then began to follow the burly grey.  Arwen called after him, making him realize shamefully that he’d forgotten her.  “Éomer…” He turned and could see the amusement in her bright eyes as she asked lightly, “Where are you all going this day?”

He smiled, hoping he’d not caused offense.  “I’m not sure…” Éomer hesitated, then glanced back to where he could just see the top of the Steward’s dark head and his sister’s dyed one as they moved with the grey gelding’s choppy strides, cutting through the mob of people.  Wherever Faramir goes…  Chuckling as the thought struck, he turned back to her and smiled widely.  “This is Faramir’s day, we’re going wherever he wishes.”  He offered her his arm, proposing, “I’ve promised to go as well…if you want to come with me…?”

The Queen raised a brow at him, then smiled and fell into step with her leashed puppy trotting with a wagging tail, “Of course.”  However, the crowd soon eclipsed Éomer’s view of Faramir’s horse and he had to stop and ask folk along the way so that when he and Arwen caught up with his sister and the Steward, Faramir was already beginning another contest, this time of speed.  Foot-racing…he eyed the Prince’s long legs and decided with amusement that he might have an edge.  Seeking Éowyn, he moved closer.  The watching throng parted for him courteously and with a few murmured thanks, Éomer sat by his sister under the shade of a cloth that had obviously been raised to shield her from the rising heat of the day. 

She turned to smile brilliantly at him.  “Here you are.”

He sighed, plucking at dry blades of grass near his legs and saying drolly, “Yes, we had to walk, that takes longer.”

Éowyn laughed, but her attention was upon her love.  She called out to him, “Ge wille beride thaege, min cempa geatolic!”

At the cry, Faramir turned and the grin that came to his face was near blinding.  Éomer smiled; he watched the men who’d chosen to compete form a line; all looked to be young and lighter in bone than most of his folk.  But Faramir was by far the lightest and he stood taller than all with his longer legs and lank build.  He smiled again.  He just might win…

A Rider officiated, making sure all that wished to run stood together and that none held advantage.  He raised his arm to a sudden stillness that came over the watchers, then dropped it.  In response, the men sprinted forward, racing down a great stretch of beaten grass.  At Éomer’s side, Éowyn’s voice led and overrode the many cries of encouragement; she sprang to her feet almost immediately, hand over her eyes, shading them to see more clearly.  Wet inky hair flying behind him, to all appearances Faramir’s long legs carried him effortlessly into the lead so that the race was over nearly at once with many of the slowest Rohirrim dropping out without even trying to catch the Steward.  The gathered broke into loud cheers of disbelief and delight and Eomer grinned, impressed as he cheered with them.  Éowyn cried, hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice to her love’s ears.  “Faramir, ge eart cyst æt cempas, stánstrang ond má caf, tæle æt beam, cene in hige, min copenere!”  His sister laughed and affirmed more boastfully than he could remember hearing in a long time, “Ic eom gielpa ge eart min!”

Faramir jogged back, obviously at ease, grinning broadly and not even winded.  Éomer stared, further impressed by the man’s leisure as he halted before Éowyn.  She was beaming, smiling and laughing triumphantly as they embraced.  Still grinning, the Steward bowed to her in a gesture of prideful and splendid courtesy—it contrasted with his rough appearance, his wet hair and damp, coarse clothing, clothing marred by dirt and the grassy green from his horse’s spittle.  When he spoke, his voice, too, was courtly and of deep contrast from his appearance, “The promised token, my Lady?”

“Here.”  His sister withdrew a white cloth and tied it to Faramir’s arm; with it she gave a brief, but very warm kiss.  Utterly charmed by the display, Éomer hid a smile, then another, as the cloth was the sole clean thing on the man.  Beside him, Éowyn frowned, “You should have worn the White Tree and sable…” She touched the cloth and smiled, playfully chiding, “It would show better.”

The radiant smile that came to Faramir’s face was filled with pleasure; he bowed, saying lightly and clearly with great joy.  “Tomorrow I shall.”  Eomer couldn’t help but smile again.

“Go on…I’ve more to give,” Éowyn laughed, eyes sparkling, “But not for free.”  She waved a hand outward and to Éomer she seemed very much like a gentlewoman in that moment; men’s clothes aside, his sister looked terribly ladylike, admirable and queenly.  He swallowed, knowing his heart to be at once merry and tormented for the brief vision.  Features still marked only by bliss, Faramir bowed low then returned to the group of men and as Éomer watched him return, his step seemed lighter, more brazen; he carried himself with more pride.  He chuckled to himself at once, heartache forgotten.  Perhaps this is why he does not wish to leave…  Certainly Éowyn had never boasted over him so openly before, nor had he been received with such welcome in the City that Éomer could see, as he did now with many of the Riders cheering his return and remarking with jealousy over the bit of cloth he wore.

Arwen turned to him, asking softly, “What now?”

“I don’t know.”  Éomer watched with fascination as it changed from Faramir simply competing randomly to multiple men of the Mark purposely taking the Steward from one competition to another, testing his skill in this or that, seeing what he could do better than they and what he could not.  And in all truth, it was not difficult to guess that Faramir was superior in contests of speed and agility and inferior in all that required brute strength.  He could run and swim more swiftly, climb trees easier, jump higher, but was laughably awful at games of wrestling and was pulled off his feet when playing a game that required that he solely pit his strength against a heavier-boned man of the Mark.  But his losses brought no incivility, as the Steward was clearly giving his greatest effort and losing with relaxed ease, bowing to the greater and holding no envy.  Indeed, the losses seemed to make them love him more, consoling him with slaps to the back and good-natured laughter, offering a hand to pull Faramir back to his feet.

At last Éowyn called halt for a meal and a rest and when she did the Steward and his companions turned to her and some groaned like boys who wished to play longer—the comparison seemed to him so apt that Éomer nearly burst into laughter.  But his sister was adamant, “Come, I don’t want you running him into the ground.”  Éowyn had stretched her hand out and collected Faramir into a tight embrace, holding him and laughing upward; now she was frowning, “Look at you.”

 “What?”  He was grinning widely, still panting from his last contest: a hide was stretched over a small fire with a group of men set on either end of it to see who was strongest.  Faramir had been pulled completely from his feet many times before the hide had caught fire and ripped, ending the game with a tumble for all.

“You don’t feel that?”  She was touching near a scratch on his neck.  It was streaked with blood, but superficial; there were rents in his clothes and other scrapes here and there from his competition.

“No.”  The Steward smiled still.  Éomer believed him—the man looked to be near floating with bliss.  He turned his head so that he wouldn’t break into delighted cackles at Faramir’s carefree, blithe expression.

 “Well, I want to wash it…and this one, and this…” Pointing out various small cuts and scrapes, Éowyn frowned deeper and this time Éomer did laugh.  He waved a hand at Faramir, grinning,

“Let her play Healer.”

His sister narrowed her eyes at him, “I am not playing…”

But the Queen smiled.  “Aye, she can use what we learned yesterday.”

“So that’s where you went…” Éomer glanced at her and nodded slowly, grinning as he admitted, “I would have been a dreadful pain.”

Arwen looked at him, fondly indulgent as she answered, “Of course you would have.”

As they started to walk back, Faramir asked Éowyn, their clasped hands swinging, “What did you learn?”

His sister began to speak eagerly, making Éomer marvel at the happiness he could so easily see, the lightness of her voice and the animation in her face, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.  It was not just the subject of healing that made her glow, but Faramir, too, and else…he guessed his being a boor no longer, the festival, all these things make her happy…  Éomer sighed.  He didn’t want this time to end, did not wish for her to leave; he wanted to hear her joyful voice forever.

The only way it will stay joyful…he sighed more deeply and glanced to Faramir’s beaming face.  I tried…he could not be faulted for that, at least.  He let his sister’s words wash over him, listening only to her buoyant tone, feeling a smile grow.  It was impossible to remain melancholy when his only blood was so happy. 

***

They’d eaten and she’d made sure Faramir had drunk something, to her brother’s teasing.  Now Éowyn dabbed a bit of clean cloth, one of her favors, into some water and squeezed, then rubbed it over a filthy scrape on his knuckles.  It was ugly, not deep at all, but full of ground in dirt and she did not wish an infection.  Faramir squirmed and she eyed him sternly.  “Hold still or I will have Eomer hold you.”  Her brother laughed, then teased mysteriously,

“Face down, by the hair, again?”

“No thank you.”  He made a wry face, under which lay great amusement and lightly teasing mischief.  Faramir moved again, then whimpered when she huffed at him, “It stings.”

She smiled, daubing at the scrape while murmuring, “My great warrior…tell me, did you whine this much when they pulled that arrow out of you?”

“I don’t remember.”  He smiled more gently, watching her with an odd indulgence.  Éowyn had cleaned that particular scratch and was working on one of the many others when he leaned low and kissed her cheek.  It made her tingle with surprise and she felt herself flush in pleasure as she asked, voice low,

“What was that for?”

“You’re taking care of me…” Faramir kissed her again and smiled broadly.  “I like it.”

Éowyn licked her lips, holding the cloth tightly over a scratch that, once cleaned, had started bleeding again.  She looked up, smiling hesitantly.  “Do you?”

“Of course.”  His eyes searched hers, then his mind touched to hers, so gentle, so loving; it was a flush of warmth…why wouldn’t I?  Faramir kissed her hand, the damp cloth still folded within it, still pressed to his oozing abrasion, and teased.  “Be my Healer?”

She laughed, “If you want.”  Éowyn bent back to her task and her brother leaned over, grinning as he advised,

“I would not grow ill and anger her…”

Faramir laughed aloud and she felt her throat tighten to hear them laughing together in fellowship, in kinship, to look up and see no anger between them.  Éowyn smiled and tried not to weep with her sudden, almost painfully acute elation.  Finally…she didn’t feel trapped between them anymore, her attentions torn between brother, lover.  Perhaps Faramir was right, perhaps this is the best of days…

She returned to cleaning his petty wounds; they showed his heart and valor just as much as her tributes of cloth or ribbon did.  At least for now they are the best…

Translations:

Eower scancas eart lang, toss lang, Hordere—Your legs are long, too long, Steward

Hordere, hwa scrud dest eower Ides hæbbe onslepan in—Steward, what clothing does your Lady sleep in?

Náhting…Faramir, ná?  Gea?—Nothing…Faramir, no?  Yes? 

Ge wille beride thaege, min cempa geatolic!—You will overtake them, my magnificent champion

Faramir, ge eart cyst æt cempas, stánstrang ond má caf, tæle æt beam, cene in hige, min copenere!  Ic eom gielpa,ge eart min!-- Faramir, you are the best of champions, strong as stone and very swift, tall as a tree, keen in wit, my lover!  I am proud you are mine!