After his last scrapes and scratches had been cleaned and inspected, Faramir was allowed to return to the field.  He walked from their table feeling his step light and quick and his heart the same, beating with elated joy, knowing that if he turned she would be watching and when he contested, she would be cheering.  He glanced back and Éowyn waved at once; he felt her happiness amid gentle and sincere worry that he would injure himself.  Faramir smiled broadly.  It was wonderful to know she cared and deeply, delightful to see it in her face, to feel it in her soul and to hear it in her voice.  Her joyful openness made his spirits soar so that he felt more like he was floating than striding earthbound.

Gaer’s voice broke through the veil of his happiness.  “It is unfair to my thinking.” 

“What is?”

Falling into stride with him, the redheaded Rider sniffed and pointed to the token Faramir bore so proudly.  “That.”  He raised a brow and spread his hands wide, palm out.  “I beat you at the hide-pull…where’s mine?” 

His broad, flaxen-haired young friend had come as well.  Tondhere frowned, good-naturedly complaining.  “So did I.”  The two Rohirrim had been opposite of him in the contest, cheerfully bellowing insults and goading him to more and more effort.  Faramir rolled his shoulders, tilting his head from one side to the other and feeling his spine and neck pop; he still ached, but it was a good ache, the pleasant discomfort of exertion.

Continuing, Gaer nodded, his features forced into uncommon solemnity.  “Where’s Tondhere’s fancy?”  He turned, walking backwards to peer at Éowyn and sounding concerned, albeit in a teasing fashion.  “Did the Lady not see me beat you so soundly?”

He smiled, ribbing, “She must not have been watching…”

Shaking his head, Gaer interrupted with a prankish grin.  “But she was…she cheered me the entire time.”  He glanced at Faramir, all innocence and confusion, “Did you not hear her?”  Tondhere guffawed.

Delighted, Faramir laughed at his friend and stopped; with quick fingers, he untied his cloth.  “Here, if it troubles you…” Extending the dainty token, he could feel his face stretching in a grin, “I expect to have plenty more.”

“Ah, do you?”  Grinning in return, Gaer’s brows lifted higher and he took the cloth to look at it curiously.  

Hearing his own lofty pride, he answered.  “Aye.”

“In what, then, friend Faramir?”  The Rohir gestured widely and grandly, his arm encompassing the festival, the fields and beyond, the white cloth flapping in the wind. 

Faramir halted once more, turning to face him, and again heard his pride shine through his brazen words—it was a strange sound, one he was unfamiliar with but found very pleasurable.  “Whatever you want.”  His grinned widened as he added and heard more than pride, his voice made positively conceited, “Whatever there is within your land that still holds a challenge for me.”

Tondhere snorted, pleased, “Bold for such a little lamb.”  He clasped Faramir’s shoulders, giving him a grin, “I like it!”

Gaer laughed and Faramir puffed out his chest, growling in their language, “Seo lamb wille betst ge, Tondhere, ond eall seo com befer me.”

The Rohirrim guffawed and made appreciative noises then exchanged glances and rapid conversation that, as far as he’d come in their tongue, Faramir could not quite understand.  A minute later, Gaer handed him his cloth back, grinning, “You may wish to keep this, you are not the best in the saddle.”  Tondhere cackled in agreement.

Faramir smiled, undaunted and thinking of Thorn.  I need no saddle, Rohirrim…  “What contest is it?”  He glanced past them to the golden fields, searching for and quickly finding the grey’s burly form—Thorn had not wandered far from him all morning, which also made his heart warm with gladness.

“Duels on horse.  The end of it is to knock a man off his mount with your shield or blade; the skill is in handling your horse, in seating it no matter what comes in battle, in its willingness to defend you.”  Gaer grinned.  “You can wear mail…if you,” His grin widened as he ribbed good-naturedly, “Or the Lady, are so fearful of your royal hide.”  By now many of the Rohirrim that had been shepherding him about had gathered; they listened fervently, the ones that understood the Common Tongue nodding and grinning in anticipation.

It sounded intriguing and mildly reminiscent of the games he’d seen Boromir play when the City was less under the weight of the Shadow.  For a moment he was lost in memory, hearing his youthful shouts for his beloved brother, the people’s cheers, his father’s smile…he stiffened, feeling the intrusion of pain.  Not today, today the only pain will be of wounds, of sprained muscles, broken bones!  He smiled with an effort, gesturing impatiently, eager to leave his memories behind.  “Let us go, then…” Faramir pointed to the grazing Thorn, “My horse is not far.”

***

In the end, Éowyn forced him to wear his padded doublet for some meager protection, finding an unexpected ally in her brother, and Faramir scowled tolerantly at her while he laced it, complaining, “They’ll call me Lady’s pet again once they see me in this…thing.”  He snorted and plucked at the quilted fabric.  Made of rough, nut-brown cloth stuffed with sedge, it fell to mid-thigh and was split to accommodate the saddle and would somewhat protect his upper body from the blows Éowyn knew he would receive during the rough tourney.  She’d not been able to make him wear his mail.

Now she watched so that he did it right, frowning.  “Lady’s pet?”

He straightened the brown doublet, tugging the laces tight and knotting them with quick fingers before looking to her and grinning.  “They called me that…did you not hear?”

“No, I didn’t.” Éowyn laughed, uncertain if she should.  But nothing seemed to dampen Faramir’s spirits—he just grinned further.  She held his token and began to carefully retie it to his arm, making sure it would not flutter away even in the thick of battle.  He beamed at her while she did, making her duck her chin in embarrassment.

“I just got them to stop calling me Lytle Bregu…now I’ve just to stop Tondhere from calling me a lamb.”  Éowyn laughed aloud and freely, still delighted by the moniker.

She patted the front of his doublet, meeting his warm, good-humored grey eyes.  You are no lamb…she smiled, remembering the ardent forcefulness of his body against her in the tub, against her dresser, pinning her deliciously to the bed and felt a flush of recalled pleasure.  He must have alighted upon her thoughts for he leaned close, one hand cupping the nape of her neck to kiss her hungrily.  But his hunger soon changed to eagerness; a more innocent sort of zeal that made her laugh giddily as it flooded her senses.

 “I love you…you’re so…” Faramir beamed at her, then kissed her again, murmuring, “I can…kiss, touch…” His arms went around her, “Anything.” 

“I don’t think anything…” Teasing him, Éowyn could feel the wadding of the doublet and its cushion comforted her. 

He pulled back just enough to smile into her eyes, his features filled with love as he whispered.  “You’re so soft against me…it is wonderful, Éowyn, wonderful.  Everything I dreamt and more, so much more.”  His head dipped to kiss her lips, her cheek, just under her chin in quick, blithesome grazes; she pulled back, laughing and scolding,

“Be still!”  Her tone softened as he did; Faramir was grinning, face slightly flushed, his eyes bright with joy.  Éowyn smiled, murmuring, “I can’t kiss you” while keeping him in place long enough to meet his mouth.

 And he did stay motionless, but only for a moment more, then suddenly he lifted her from her feet and then high, swinging her up as her eyes went wide with surprise, hands grasping his shoulders, ankles locking together at the small of his back.  It was a swift, easy motion expressing his rapture and he laughed at her, eyes sparkling, crinkled with good cheer.  She clutched his shoulders and cried out in laughing alarm; jigging her playfully, Faramir grinned and she kissed him, relaxed now, knowing that he would not drop her.  His arms were strong like to the limbs of a tree—she was utterly secure within them, not feeling even the slightest of trembles that indicated strain.  Too soon he set her down again, letting her slide down his long body, and kissed her passionately, but euphorically, laughing in the middle and grinning at her like he could not contain himself.  You’re so unafraid… 

And you’re so happy…she stared at him in marvel, loving his overflowing, charming bliss that had not yet faded, and she hoped fervently, would not ever.  His smile was wide, his warm, callused hands cupping the sides of her face as his mouth met hers again and with more seriousness, all heat and ardent enthusiasm to make her grow shamefully near to faintness, her legs weakening.  Oh…she thrilled.  He felt as wonderful as he’d called her, his body firm and hale; she could sense his anticipation, his keen desire unwhetted, only checked by patience and warm regard and the distraction of his joy.  Éowyn laughed at him shakily, half-embarrassed, but pleased that he was so pleased.  Then she swallowed, throat tightened, no longer able to meet his eyes.  She leaned against his comforting mass, whispering into his neck, dreading the answer.  “Was…was it so terrible…when I was…?”

“It was horrible.”  When she looked up, heart choking her, his face was briefly mournful, crossed with gentle sympathy.  “I cannot lie.”  She nodded, pained as he continued tenderly, “I couldn’t hold you without you growing so stiff, so afraid.  Don’t feel badly…” His finger caressed her cheek, surprising her.  “It was no fault of yours, my love…”

“I know.”  But her voice was small with guilt and he heard it.

Faramir was stern now.  “Never.”  Éowyn frowned, confused and he insisted, “Never feel bad.”

She laughed a little stiltedly, but felt budding hope and joy.  “You won’t let me?”

“I won’t.”  He looked at her, determined.

“Good.”  Heart touched, Éowyn wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close.  She felt his body move with his breath, his warmth and the padded doublet that would protect him.  Around his side she could see Riders gathering their horses, marking a field, passing out shields and taking their swords from their baldrics to fight with them, the blade kept safe by remaining within its wooden leather-bound scabbard.  But still…many men were wounded or accidentally slain in the tourneys, more still in the war games she was certain would follow.  Her arms tightened as she whispered into his ear.  “Please don’t get hurt.”  She compressed her lips, begging, “Please Faramir, take care…”

He hushed her, vowing, “If I did I’d let you heal me and be very contrite and swallow all the potions you saw fit to give me no matter the taste of them.”  He smiled as though it were nothing, with all confidence in the coming trial.  His ready and bold confidence was strange, but as welcome as his joy to her eye.  Faramir patted his doublet.  “See?  I’m following your advice already, dearest.”  Leaning down, he kissed her again and finished with a brighter, more indulgent smile, “My sweetly concerned Healer.”  His grin made her relax somewhat and Éowyn nodded, slipping from his embrace.

“You’d better fetch Thorn.”

“He’s there.”  Pointing, Faramir beamed at her with the same boyish exuberance of before, making her laugh, then whistled.  His grey eyes took on the faintly inward cast of when he communicated with his gift, making her wonder and look to the gelding.  Thorn’s head had lifted.  With a short toss of his big nose, he began to come, trotting over the field and then slowing to a much warier walk as he entered the crowd, pausing, his ears flicking cautiously as he moved around clumps of people, cumbersome head lifted and turning this way and that.  After crossing half the distance and surrounded by unfamiliar folk, Thorn halted and neighed stridently, head raised as high as he could put it, ears forward to listen for a reply.  Éowyn smiled, charmed by the horse’s search for his master.  Faramir called, “Thorn!” 

The grey found him a moment later, enthusiastically breaking into a jog, then ambling the last few strides to inspect Faramir’s hands and push for a scratch in what had nearly become ritual now.  He stood patiently as her Prince grasped his dark mane and swung aboard.   She frowned, “You don’t want a saddle, bridle?”

“No, I’ve just got to fetch my sword.”  Faramir smiled sunnily as he seated himself.  “Wish me good fortune,” His smile widened, “And victory.”

Éowyn laughed, coming closer to squeeze his knee.  “I do.” 

He touched his adorned arm and inclined his head to her, looking almost breathlessly grand; his hair fell around his face and shoulders, shining dark as night with his brown doublet lending a touch more formality than his soiled shirt had; his voice was deep and princely.  “I want to earn another of your fancies, my Lady.” 

“I’ve no doubt that you will, my Lord Faramir.”  She smiled and spoke, as she’d not for a long time, with ceremony and cheek mixed together, loving him and his splendid nobility.  He grinned at her before turning Thorn, pushing gently at the gelding’s neck and nudging with his heels.  Éowyn hugged herself, worried as she watched him jog towards his tent, dismount and emerge with his covered blade, the leather of the sheath sable, then remount and gallop to meet the other Riders.  She bit her lips, then moved to where Éomer and Arwen had seated themselves. 

***

Faramir held his sheathed sword across his lap while Thorn loped to the field; under the bright sun the dry grasses were withered, coated with dust and did not gleam.  Rohirrim were many and, after a moment of looking through them, he spotted a familiar shade of red and guided Thorn to stand by Gaer’s side.  The Rider was busily saddling his chestnut, but he stopped to look at him strangely.  “Where is your tack?”

He smiled, trying not to sound too boasting.  “I ride without it today.”  As I’ve never done…Faramir hoped fervently that he would not fly from the gelding’s back and embarrass himself.

“Ah, so you’ve come so far?”  The Rohir looked to the grey, asking in a more indulgent voice, “Have you taught this foolish South-man so well, Brémel?  Last that I saw he looked more like a calf tied in the saddle than a Rider.”  Thorn’s only response was to flick an ear. 

Nearby, Nier snickered.  “A three-legged calf.”

Faramir stroked Thorn’s neck in deep affection, giving Gaer and the other Rider a less affectionate glance.  “He has.”

“Well, you go as you like.”  But Gaer was grinning, chiding in a lower and teasing tone.  “I hope you’ve improved from the last time I watched you ride.  I don’t want to hear you’ve fallen and cracked your head open like a nut.”  He paused, and then mused jestingly, “Though the Lady would be free to remarry…” Gaer brightened, continuing his thought, “And who better than me whom she adores?”

  Oh, does she?  Bemused, Faramir pointedly ignored the man, watching Gaer’s chestnut come to sniff his boot, then boldly nibble his trouser, taking some of the material to chew it like a cud.  He hissed and shook his leg but the chestnut only looked at him with interested brown eyes, utterly unafraid.  As he jiggled his leg again a moment later, Thorn pinned his ears and swung his heavy head threateningly, glaring in displeasure to drive the startled horse back two strides.  Faramir scolded gently, privately delighted that the grey was so protective and jealous.  “Stop that.”  Gaer’s chestnut stayed well away from them as the Rohir finished tacking and mounted.  Thorn was quiet again, his head raised, ears moving as he watched the men and horses milling around them with keen and deep involvement, stock-still, tail not even twitching.

Faramir watched too, and took note that many had shields.  He did not, his mind listing the first of his disadvantages, adding…saddle, bridle…  Suddenly Gaer began to speak, unbuckling his sword from his baldric and holding it across his thighs.  He was grinning.  “Do not hold back your arm because we are friends, Faramir.” 

“I won’t.”

“I won’t hold mine with you…” The Rohir teased him, “Since you’ve grown so bold, I think you no longer need my aid.”  Faramir laughed and he nodded, “This is not battle of just men against men, but man against man.  Only one can stand…” He fell momentarily quiet and turned in the saddle, glancing back where Éowyn, Éomer and Arwen sat.

Where the royal party is seated, Faramir thought and was surprised to think it.  He was unused to associating Éowyn or Éomer with any such thought born of nobility or higher culture.  But they looked so beneath a cloth raised to shade them, laughing while sitting on a blanket spread over the grass.  He blinked, surprised, and thought ruefully that he must amend his thinking.  Faramir glanced down at himself.  I am the ruffian here.  He smiled widely.

Meanwhile, his friend had been speaking again.  “…and I suppose that man could become the Lady’s champion.”  Gaer’s grin widened.  “Shall we ask her and make the competition worth something more?”

Faramir shook his head, bemused again.  “Worth what?”

“Worth a day at her side?”  The Rider chuckled, eyeing him good-naturedly and bantering with a growing smile, “Wouldn’t you be angered.  I would.”

He snorted, answering doubtfully.  “You may ask her.”

“I think I will.”  And before Faramir could speak again, Gaer was clucking to his mount and jogging away.  He nudged Thorn, getting him to follow.  Éomer looked up at them curiously as Gaer dismounted, acknowledged his Lord as was proper, then bowed low.  He asked in a surprisingly attentive voice, “My Lady, if I may speak to you?”

She smiled.  “Yes, Gaer?”

He began slowly; “I ask a favor of great boldness, perhaps too great…”

Éowyn questioned, smiling archly, “Am I to be surprised?”  Her eyes met his and Faramir laughed, feeling a burst of kind affection, thinking that she had spoken in a decidedly queenly fashion.  This was strange, but as he looked at her, not displeasing…not displeasing at all.  A wave of happiness came over his heart, seeing in the brief moment a flash of grandeur and eminence, of a splendid Lady.  My Lady of Ithilien…White Lady of Emyn Arnen…  He smiled, joyful.  One day she would be called so and in the accents of his City and in my lands yet unbuilt, in our house.  Faramir felt his own joy at the thoughts, and then a great flood of deep frustration.  Why do I stay, what holds me besides…everything?  He bowed his head, uncertain.

Gaer grinned, sounding less cautious as he continued, “I ask that you offer a prize to the victor…perhaps a day by your side…?”  She frowned, glancing to Faramir and he felt her wariness.  Gaer noted their exchange and grinned, prodding, “Or does the Lady not have faith in her champion, that Faramir will not win the contest?”

Éowyn smiled, but her fingers had knotted in her lap.  “I have faith.”  She looked down for a moment, brow gaining a faint crease.

Gaer seemed to hesitate, then asked, “A lesser prize, then, I fear I am too bold, after all.”  Faramir looked to him, surprised at how well the redheaded Rohir had read his love.  She’d just begun to show anxiety and that only vaguely, yet Gaer had already lowered the stakes.  He smiled faintly, touched.  He cares for her…

“What could the Lady of Ithilien grant?”  Arwen took up the challenge, smiling.  Éomer’s eyes sank for just a moment and Faramir felt his sadness at the title, but it was fleeting and soon the Lord of the Mark was smiling again, offering,

“The privilege of a meal…or instead of a day, the afternoon…?”

Éowyn frowned, then nodded to her brother in acceptance.  “I like that, a meal.”  Faramir noted silently that it was the briefer of the two options.  He wondered as he gazed at her.

Do you fear still, my love?

Her eyes lifted and they bore shame as she answered.  I do not know them…or what they might do…what if it is not you who wins?

I would let no harm come to you, whether touch or ill words…  Éowyn smiled and it was warm, trusting his simply granted vow like it was a weighty oath. 

 Gaer asked eagerly, “Alone?” and she laughed at him; it was plain to see that her heart had been lightened. 

“Do you think you will win so much?”  Éowyn glanced to Faramir again and her smile was dazzling.  “Or that you will so easily defeat my dearest and bravest champion?”  His heart swelled with pride and he couldn’t stop the grin that came to his face.  When in his City had he ever been called dearest or bravest?  Never, never…

Gaer bowed, “With such a prize, I know I shall…” He grinned, adding intently and with just the slightest of shyness,  “And, if it pleases you, be named champion in his stead.”

Arwen turned to Éomer, almost giggling as she declared, “I see his desire plainly now…”

        The Lord of the Mark chuckled, looking just as merry, “To out perform Faramir…?”

        The Queen finished for him.  “And win the Lady’s heart and pride.”  They laughed uproariously together and Faramir was delighted to see Gaer flush.  He turned to the Rider and raised his brows, questioning.  His friend looked away, red-faced, and Faramir roared with laughter, unutterably charmed.

        “You may try, friend Gaer!”  He guffawed, glancing to Éowyn who’d put her hand over her mouth, smothering her own laughter, and then finished flippantly.  “But you shall fail.”

The Rohir was still a bit flushed as he answered firmly.  “We will see, friend Faramir.”

“Yes, we shall.”  She was smiling indulgently up the redheaded Rider.  “Go, now, and may one of you be the victor, or I will be very unhappy with you both, my braggarts!”  Laughing, Éowyn released them and Gaer bowed even lower before remounting his horse and returning to the field.  Holding Thorn there, Faramir smiled at her reassuringly and she returned his smile.  Éomer grinned at him, teasing lightly,

“Good fortune to you, Faramir, my kinsman,” The freely given epithet startled him and he smiled, touched as Éomer continued without pause, “I will be displeased if you force my sister into another’s company…though I think not as displeased as you.”  He chuckled gaily and Faramir smiled, looking at Thorn’s withers before he answered,

“I think the same, my friend.”  Éomer seemed pleased at the returned familiarity, making Faramir smile in gladness.  He felt…good, so good and welcomed.  Thorn stamped beneath him and he sighed.  I don’t want to leave this…Rohan is where I am welcomed, where I am a champion…he glanced down at his attire, then around himself and sobered a bit, feeling a pang of shame.  Where I am not called upon ceaselessly to fulfill obligations, not drawn to sovereign standards…he stayed and in doing so, adhered to all of the failings his father had put upon his shoulders—laziness, fearfulness, uselessness to his people.  I must return…but he could not yet bear the idea.  Improbably, the Mark had become a haven of warmth, laughter, and familiarity.

Arwen laughed, drawing his attention.  “Aye, it is a good sized field you must defeat…my dear Prince, I hope you have the strength and stamina of your forefathers!”  The Queen’s voice lowered to jest with a wicked eye; “Or else I suspect you shall disappoint your Lady to no end.”  Éowyn flushed a little as she laughed, but as her gaze rose to meet his, he saw that her eyes were not at all shy, instead smoky, anticipative.  He felt a thrill he’d not in a long time, a surge of wild excitement and eagerness and smiled at her, nervous and delighted all at once. 

Éowyn’s smile was oddly sensual, spreading slowly over her lips; the womanly effect spoiled immediately by her breathlessly light reply, nearly giggled.  “Aye, he shall.”  Their gazes locked and Faramir’s skin felt too tight for all the emotions that it contained.  He was not as ready as he’d thought for his life…I cannot even look at her without blushing like a boy!  He laughed under his breath, embarrassed as he ducked his head, acutely aware that he was acting more like his students than a man his own age and temper.  The Queen laughed lightly, in good cheer, and Éomer joined her; they were laughing at him.

Regaining control, he smiled and nodded to Éomer, “Thank you” and answered Arwen smoothly, “I hope that as well, my Queen.”  Faramir bowed from the waist and squeezed his legs around Thorn’s barrel, taking his leave with a smile and a warm parting, “My Lady, my dearest.”

Her farewell was equally warm, pleasing him.  “Go and be victorious…” The sound of Rohirric deepened and made ardent had never seemed so wonderful as she finished with blushing zealousness, “Min cempa ealdorlang, min ceas mann, min Feramearh, ge wille ofercom seo!”

He smiled joyfully and Thorn turned, loping back to the field where Gaer had already spread the word of the great incentive of their Lady’s company; the Rohirrim were in high spirits, boasting and calling to one another as they began to form lines.  Faramir followed Gaer, unsure of where he was supposed to be.  The Rohir waved him nearer and he obeyed, using his legs to steer his mount, having to nudge harder to get the grey’s attention.  Thorn was keenly interested in the doings of the other men and horses, watching them as alertly as a general preparing to engage in battle and he smiled, patting the horse’s neck.  “Come, Thorn, this way, lad.”

Riders were forming into long ranks across the field and half bore shields; he still did not.  The line of competitors was broad, ranging far and made up of boys and men, some rough-clothed Riders, some men-at-arms with newer tack and richer clothing, some clearly common folk, all mounted on horses that tossed their heads and pawed eagerly.  Faramir admired the beasts—even the animals the common men rode were truly beautiful to behold, flanks gleaming, shod hooves stamping and lifting lightly, eyes keen.

Dust clung to sweaty coats and flesh, gloved hands shifted on their carefully sheathed weapons.  He could feel the growing anticipation and his nerves hummed.  Under him, Thorn seemed to sense it and shifted, but otherwise did not move.  The horse nearest to them rose suddenly, half-rearing and twisting before coming down to paw at the dirt, digging a sharp trench; others would not stand and jigged or circled in eagerness.  Tensing, Faramir held his sheathed sword up and ready, conscious that he bore no shield; he was wondering if he could pick one up from a fallen Rider when a roar arose.  His sense of anticipation peaked and he cried aloud with the others, leaning forward as the other horses sprang ahead, prepared for Thorn’s rush—

But Thorn did not rush, instead he held his ground still, ears flicking and Faramir frowned down at the horse’s small, quick eyes that searched…for what?  Before him, Rohirrim were clashing in gleeful mayhem, striking at each other and straining to throw each other from the saddle.  The unseated men retreated, cursing as they gave up their places in the tourney and their chances at the prize of repast with their beloved Lady.  Loose horses added to the chaos, galloping around and through the competing men before finding their way either into the empty fields or to their master’s hand. 

All at once Thorn seemed to finish with his baffling study and he tossed his head and sprang forward into a smooth, controlled lope; Faramir grasped his dark mane, gripping with his legs and holding on tightly, well aware that Thorn was in control, not he.  Easy, easy, trust…the grey would not injure him.  Remember, trust, love…Faramir relaxed his tight grip and raised his covered sword again.

They galloped into the fray, Thorn dropping his head as though to buck, but instead pinning his ears and slamming his bulky body against a lighter boned gelding whose Rider had turned to engage him, sending the other horse staggering and retreating in terror despite its master’s exasperated shout.  Faramir found himself surrounded but Thorn struck out, kicking and lunging to bite the Riders’ mounts, guarding him so that no more than one man could come at a time and then only to his side, where it was easiest to defend himself.  The horses around him swiftly learned to avoid the fierce, burly grey, wheeling away and giving him a sort of miniature, open arena in which to choose and pick of his opponents.  Thorn was amazingly easy to direct; whichever Rohir he decided to engage, the gelding went for without Faramir’s signal—he merely had to look and decide of which one and the horse leaped before he could motion with leg or heel—it was as though the gelding also practiced second-sight.

The covered swords made a great din, a heavy thudding and thwacking instead of the thinner, more piercing sound of steel to steel.  Shields banged, horses neighed and snorted, some squealing shrilly—he saw two geldings rise to battle, biting and striking at each other as their Riders swung their weapons and understood Gaer’s remark about one’s mount defending oneself.  Thorn had an easier job of it than most horses; he simply used his greater bulk to throw them off balance, knocking them back and jolting their Riders terribly.  Faramir quickly took advantage, reaching out to knock the unsteady Rohirrim from their saddles; he plucked one’s shield from their falling hand and set it before himself.  Without reins to worry over, he had no trouble using it and his sheathed sword in tandem, defeating still other Rohirrim.

But there were many to go and the sun and effort made sweat roll into his eyes; he blinked it away, concentrating on each Rider that came for him and keeping his position on Thorn’s increasingly lathered back.  Faramir had not had as much experience on fighting in saddle as the Rohirrim did and it showed in his hesitation, his yelp of alarm and panicked grasp of the mane whenever Thorn moved suddenly to either retreat or attack.  He simply was unable to predict his mount’s motions.

In fact, Thorn had several tricks and each took getting used to before Faramir was able to weather them without feeling as though he would tumble from the gelding’s back.  Dropping his head and neck suddenly, he nipped other horses’ forelegs so that they kneeled in startled pain, allowing Faramir to shove their equally startled riders forward over their horse’s heads and to the ground with little effort.  Thorn also used his burly body to knock the other horses off-balance with a heavy charge, jolting both Faramir and the unsuspecting Rider; he learned to brace himself firmly and act before the other man got his bearings.  Or the grey reared almost in their faces, pawing with iron-shod hooves and forcing them to retreat whenever the fighting grew too fierce and his opponent came too closely or Faramir’s arm grew wearied of enduring their battle.  Each upsurge required a tight grip on the gelding’s dark mane and barrel or, saddleless, he would slide straight down the horse’s slippery back and to the earth.  Faramir soon abandoned his shield to hold tight as all inferior competitors had long been cast out from the field and his mount had to resort to his tricks again and again.

Thorn drew back from the fray as he shoved, then felled another man and Faramir gasped under the hot sun, coughing from the dust, abruptly conscious that the field was thinning and that he was still well.  He grinned, feeling a burst of pride.  He’d taken a few bruising impacts before he’d garnered his shield and after he’d discarded it, but was otherwise unharmed and only lightly wearied.  Thorn was lathered, his neck dripping with white foaming sweat and his barrel moved in quick breaths under Faramir’s gripping thighs.  He admitted to himself with a smile, this horse is working harder than I am…  Patting Thorn’s sweaty neck, he praised, “Good lad, good lad!”  The gelding had more than earned his treat of grain and scratching.  And a game…when he and I have strength again to play it.  He praised again, “Good lad, Thorn!”  When he looked up, Gaer’s eyes met his across an expanse of heavily trodden grasses and he fell silent, expectant, but the Rohir only booted his horse forward to meet another.  Faramir was barely allowed a moment’s breather; even Thorn’s face made ugly with menace and lowered to glower forbiddingly at the approaching horses could not spare him much more than that from the eager Rohirrim. 

At long last he became aware that only himself and three others remained—Gaer was one, making Faramir grin in surprise.  He cannot shoot a bow…but apparently his friend was decently skilled in mounted battle.  Again Thorn had taken him away and he watched, catching his breath as Gaer dispatched another Rohir, striking over and over with an unwaveringly ferocious determination he could sense clearly even across their distance.  He is serious…Faramir gazed in silence, breathing as heavily as Thorn.  It was clear that the contest meant much to Gaer.  He frowned, wondering if he should yield.  I see her daily…a meal alone would be pleasant but no great thing.  Faramir shook his head sharply.  No.  He would not yield, nor risk losing the respect he’d earned from his Rohirric brothers. 

A Rider galloped to meet him and Thorn rose on his hind legs, twisting away.  Refocused, Faramir held on tightly, desperately, as his horse’s back had become quite slick with sweat, and put his heels to Thorn’s flanks.  It was an unnecessary signal—the grey had already lunged forward off his haunches, powerfully catching up with the Rider even as he turned his mount and a strong blow from Faramir’s sheathed sword, leaning over the other man’s saddle with the boon of Thorn’s plunging into the other horse, felled him. 

He panted, turning to see Gaer fell his opponent, the last beside himself.  Faramir was pleased, finding satisfaction in his friend’s skill.  He saluted him with his covered sword, calling in a delighted voice, “You did not say you could fight so well on horse!”

Gaer met and returned the salute, grinning, “You did not say you would be letting Brémel do your fighting!”  His arm raised and he saluted again, this time making it clear that he saluted the horse, “Well done, Brémel, I do you honor!”  Gaer grinned, adding cheekily, “For putting up with your South-man and carrying him to…” He paused purposely and his grin widened, “Near victory.”

Faramir asserted firmly, feeling Thorn begin to jog forward to meet Gaer’s equally lathered chestnut.  Both the Rohir and his horse were smeared with dust, filthy and looked weary.  “Victory, you meant.”  He lifted his sheathed sword as his mount surged into a rocking canter, big head and ears forward and ready to act.

“You know what I meant!”  Gaer’s sense of determination was as palpable as the sound of his horse’s hoof beats.  The chestnut, too, had lengthened stride.  Faramir felt Thorn move slightly to the side, the indication of when he plunged into another horse and gripped tightly in response.  His legs had begun to ache fiercely, unused to supporting his weight and balancing without the aid of stirrups. 

But Gaer’s chestnut sheered away before they met and the Rohir’s cry of surprise echoed the crowd’s calls of disappointment.  He drew up his horse, turning it to charge again.  Faramir suddenly remembered there was a crowd and turned; Éowyn waved her cloth at him, the promise of his token.  He could hear her voice, but faintly, calling for him, warming his heart and bracing his soul.

My token…  He saw Gaer looking too, and again felt the man’s deep determination to win.  He sent his horse forward but once more it sheered off, frightened of Thorn’s promising glower.  Heart firming, Faramir sent Thorn after his friend, but the chestnut evaded, stopping short and the rising thunder of hooves meant Gaer was behind him.  He turned to raise his sword to meet the strike he knew would come, keeping his balance with one hand locked in Thorn’s mane, and when Thorn stopped unexpectedly and wheeled to face Gaer, Faramir was jolted and grabbed the grey’s mane with both hands to keep from being spun to the dirt.  He’d not learned this trick, apparently.

Bearing down on him, Gaer shouted in premature victory, prodding his chestnut to lunge boldly and hit them broadside.  At the impact, Faramir felt Thorn give a grudging stride, ears pinned and eye fierce.  His dark muzzle wrinkled to bare great teeth in a threat.  The chestnut came again, nearer to Thorn’s front and all but hitting Faramir’s leg.  With a yelp, he pulled it back too quickly, overbalancing and nearly slipping off the other side of Thorn as he did; the gelding’s lathered back was terribly slick. 

Sliding back into his seat, he’d barely gotten himself secure again when the grey stumbled.  Thorn’s head and neck disappeared and a violent jolt shook them.  His eyes widening, Faramir abandoned his sword, using both hands to keep himself from falling off as Thorn went down to his knees.  The shoulder that bore the great scar seemed to give way and Faramir was jarred again, his mount staggering and gaining his feet with an effort.  For the first time Thorn felt unsteady beneath him and he squeezed with his legs, trying to keep his horse from going to its knees again and fending off the persistent Gaer at the same time.  His friend bellowed in frustration, swinging his sword as hard as he could, as though he were battling for his life, “Fall, curse you!”  Gaer looked wearier than he did, like he’d fought harder and with more men—he was sweating, panting, sending his horse forward again and again. 

“No!”  Determined not to yield, not to lose the respect he’d spent the day playing games to earn, Faramir reached out to grab the sheathed weapon and fight Gaer for it.  His friend’s eyes widened at the bold, unexpected maneuver, nearly losing his grip on his sword.  Faramir grasped the Rider’s wrist and jerked determinedly, all the while struggling to hold his place on Thorn’s sweat-slick back and to keep his horse turned so that the chestnut would not hit the sensitive shoulder again.  His legs ached, his hand in Thorn’s mane ached, and his whole body ached.

As Gaer pulled back, Thorn was favoring the leg, worrying Faramir and distracting him as well as putting them both off-balance.  They danced, horses circling with pinned ears, their faces ugly and angered.  Faramir was amazed that he’d lasted so long, ducking or deflecting each of Gaer’s swings and snatching at the covered sword to grapple for the weapon, jerking at it while the Rohir bellowed at him in frustration.  “Stop!  It!”  The indignation in Gaer’s voice made him burst into dust-harshened, breathless caws of laughter.

He wished for his shield, feeling his reaching arm and shoulder ache, the fingers of his left hand cramping, tangled in Thorn’s mane.  Around them he could feel the distraction of the crowd, their anticipation and hear the growing volume of their cheers.  We are putting on a magnificent show…

Faramir laughed again, tasting dirt in his mouth and his Rohir friend frowned at him in incomprehension then leaned in and shoved him hard in hopes he would slip from Thorn’s back.  “Stop it…fall!  Why won’t you fall?!”  Suddenly Gaer booted his horse forward, shouting again as fiercely as though uttering his desire would command it into being, “Fall!” and the chestnut reared high—too high, when he came down his foreleg caught over Thorn’s neck and he was unable to withdraw it. 

There was a horse’s leg in his lap; Faramir stared at it in weary stupefaction before Thorn lurched and bowed under the weight and all of his mind went to keeping his seat.  He saw Gaer’s eyes go wide with surprise and fear while he shouted, jerking at the reins to pull his horse away, all determination to defeat him immediately quenched.  Faramir felt the chestnut breathing hotly onto him, saw it looming over him and he pushed at its sweaty chest, desperate, seeing that the panicking gelding was helpless to keep from sliding down on top of him, stopped only by its jerky efforts to withdraw.  He thought of swinging off of Thorn, but the horses were moving too much and too erratically.  They would surely knock him to the ground, then stomp upon him in their panic.

If I fall…he felt his heart racing, beating so fast he felt faint, knowing he would be crushed to death beneath the animals.  His hand tightened in Thorn’s mane, begging that the grey would keep his feet and that the horses would not fall in a tangle of heavy limbs and torsos, mashing him beneath and between them.  Faramir slapped at the chestnut, trying to get it away, but to no avail.  It was well stuck, shorter in height than Thorn, leaning on him with its other foreleg helplessly swinging and banging Thorn’s shoulder.  All of its weight rested upon its trembling flanks, which were not meant to support all of the chestnut’s mass; his hindquarters shook and jerked as he leaned more and more on Thorn.  The more the poor creature tried to rear and get itself free, the more it wearied itself and could not pull again.

The horses struggled too hard for aid, nostrils blown out with their terrified inhalations, rearing, trapped and jerking against each other in growing frenzy, their eyes rolling whitely, Gaer’s lumbering and staggering on two legs.  Their fear added to his and it was near paralyzing.  Faramir tried to gather his wits, to project calm to Thorn at least, but could not.  With the chestnut’s full weight over his withers, unable to get out from under him, Thorn could not remain standing though he tried valiantly, reeling and trying to retreat, teeth bared and biting at the chestnut’s shoulder in vicious strikes.  A yowl from Gaer meant he’d missed his target at least once.

 But despite his efforts, Thorn was doing no more than pulling the panicking horse with him.  Faramir felt his shoulder give again, the knee and leg buckling under pain and they finally went down as he’d dreaded, Thorn collapsing, falling heavily to his side with a grunt of out-rushing air, powerless to stop himself.  For a terrifying instant Faramir was certain the chestnut would follow and crush him between them, but Gaer’s freed horse kept its feet and the Rohir jerked the reins again with a cry of command, making it wheel away at the last moment, mouth torn from the bit. 

Feeling a burst of fear as he saw the dusty, trampled ground rise at him, Faramir was knocked to the hard earth, letting go of everything and quickly rolling away, almost under Gaer’s retreating horse.  He felt the vibration as Thorn hit a moment later, his legs kicking, eyes rolling in fright and anger, gathering himself to stand almost immediately.  He blew, snorting through dusty nostrils and turning awkwardly and painfully to sniff at Faramir’s face, nickering softly in anxious fear.  Raising a filthy hand to the horse’s face, he panted, gathering his breath and aching all over.  I’m…all right.  Thorn blew again, then sneezed on him and he laughed weakly.  “Thank you.”

A great roar arose from the throng, as well as hisses and jeers—from losing bettors, he guessed.  Staring at the blue sky, Faramir lay panting, rising slowly and wearily to sit upright, not terribly upset and not injured, only shaken.  It is just a meal…he was glad Gaer had won, at least, rather than some other.  “Easy, easy friend…” He patted Thorn’s nose, reassuring the animal as it peered down at him with troubled brown eyes and looked over at his covered sword, the sable sheath now beige with dust and the silver hilt browned with the smeared mud of his sweat.  It was astonishingly far away—their last battle had seemed to be only a few heartbeats time to his mind.

Gaer had dismounted the instant his horse had been freed from the tangle and come to offer a strong hand, asking gravely, nervously, “Are you injured?”  He was clearly upset.  “That was an unlucky turn and a hard fall.”  Nodding in agreement, feeling drained, Faramir took the hand and was hauled to his feet without effort, surprising him though it should not have, the younger Rider was just as powerful as his robust physique indicated.

Brushing at his clothing, he answered wearily, “I’m just bruised.”  He smiled to show he held no hardness of spirit and was then shocked when the Rohir gasped,

“Oh, good!” and pulled him into a hearty embrace, grinning with a profound relief that washed over Faramir’s mind like a cool balm.  “I thought for certain he’d stepped on you and my heart nearly failed me!”  Gaer nodded to his horse; Faramir felt himself stay stiff for a moment, unsure and astonished, and then relax and smile as he was commended.  “You fought well, my brother, and even without your blade!”

A slow grin came to him, along with the feeling of his pride; loss notwithstanding, it had been a great battle and…I did well…  Faramir felt his shoulders straighten, his proud enthusiasm return in full.  “Thank you…” He laughed, “You did, too.  I didn’t think you…” He caught himself, not wanting to insult.

“The bow is a tricky weapon.”  His friend grinned, “I was a rider before I could walk.”  Nodding, he expected Gaer to go and claim his prize, but instead the Rider grew hesitant, regretfully shaking his head, “It is a shame.”

“What is?”  He stretched a little, wincing at the many complaints from joints and muscles.

Gaer looked back at Éowyn and her companions, his features marked with contrition.  “I did not unseat you fairly…we will have to have battle on foot.”  He smiled, patting Faramir’s shoulder, “Once you’re ready, friend Faramir…” Gaer repeated himself with more worry, “That was a hard fall.”

“No,” Faramir smiled quickly; he was weary and concerned now as his eye fell on Thorn and he saw at once how exhausted and lame the horse was.  “I accept defeat, you felled me.”

“Truly?”  The Rohir looked him up and down, his open face breaking into a radiant grin.  “You fought well for a Southerner,” He nodded to Thorn and chuckled, “If you could match Brémel you would be very great in the contests.” 

Faramir smiled, wry, “Thank you.”

“It is a compliment…” His friend protested, clearly upset that he might have given insult.

“I understand.”  Raising his hands, he laughed and the Rohir nodded, less anxious.  A moment later Gaer was once more grinning hugely and Faramir felt his growing pride and exultation as he was praised, 

“You did well, fought with honor, determination and even when you lost your weapon did not give until your horse fell…and all with no tack!”  The Rider glanced around them at the masses, marveling.  “They will not easily forget such a display…such a splendid and daring display from a man not of our folk…a very stout-hearted one at that, Faramir.”  Gaer bowed slightly, his voice changing to a very rare note of formality, “I am honored by our combat.”  Then he grinned wide, “I can say I defeated a Lord…”

He laughed, “Aye.”  Smiling gaily, spirits lifted and amused at his friend’s happiness, Faramir glanced again to where Éowyn sat, wondering if she would be displeased.  No doubt she is worried about me; she’d stood, one hand shading her eyes to see him better and he waved to show that he was unharmed. 

Gaer watched him look and asked more quietly, “You are certain you do not wish to fight…?  I will wait.”

“I am.”  Even with the padding of the doublet he was now grateful that Éowyn had made him wear, his shoulder, side and hip had begun to ache from the impact of falling from Thorn; he could only imagine the horse felt worse. 

“As you wish.”  Gaer beamed in victory.  With one last, companionable clap to Faramir’s back, he turned away and mounted his wet horse, jogging to the royal party.  Faramir smiled in affection and amusement, but both faded as Thorn took a stride forward and he saw that the gelding still favored his leg.  He knelt tiredly and felt the limb and near the long scar with dread, unable to sense any points of greater heat—even in the hot day Thorn was nearly steaming, covered with sweat and lather, his nostrils extended and pinkened, blowing loudly from all his exertions. 

“I think we need to go to the river…” Perhaps the slow, lukewarm waters would cool his horse and ease his aches.  Faramir hoped it was merely a wrenched muscle that made Thorn limp.  He knew nothing was broken, thankfully, but that was the extent of his guesses; he simply was not very knowledgeable in healing the body of a horse.  Speaking softly, he murmured, “Come, I’ll walk.”  He glanced to Éowyn, expecting to see her only from a distance and instead saw her approaching and quite near, strides quick, face worried.  Despite his fatigue, rising soreness from his tumble and concern over Thorn, her care made him smile widely.  Faramir turned to the grey and whispered in soft, private jest, “Here comes my Healer to fuss…” Thorn just blinked in reply, looking tired.

***

She walked quick, wishing to run, but holding herself in control.  Éowyn blurted, anxious, as soon as she was within earshot, “Are you well?”

“Yes.”  Her heart lightened, relief flooding through her veins and easing the knots in her stomach.  He smiled at her as though he could tell that she still wanted to strip his doublet off and check.  Éowyn restrained herself to just a quick up and down glance for blood; finding none, she relaxed entirely.

Free to embrace him, she did and held tight, whispering, “You scared me terribly…” He was dusty, bits of grass clinging to his doublet, hanging in his hair, and he smelled strongly of horse and sweat. 

Faramir jested in weak play, holding her just as tightly, “How do you think I felt?”  She could hear and feel his weariness.  Nearby, Thorn held his head low, sweat running down his flanks and legs, dripping down his muzzle.  Her love frowned at the horse, brushing his soaked forelock back in a tender gesture, “Can we take him to the river?  He is very hot.”

She teased gently, “He was doing most of the work, even I could see.”

“I know.”  Faramir grinned, but did not lose his seriousness. 

Éowyn took his dirty sword to unburden him the only way she could, holding it as she nodded, “We can.”  They walked slowly, keeping Thorn’s pace, Faramir’s grey eyes watching each hobbling stride in deep concern.  He didn’t seem to notice that his own gait was slow with exhaustion and soreness.  She took his arm, letting him lean against her, if only a little.  Faramir smiled briefly before turning once more to the grey. 

She chose a section of the Snowbourn where the banks were not steep and were wooded, giving shade to the hot horse.  Thorn appeared grateful as he shuffled into the shallow water, nosing at it with his muzzle.  Her love waded in too, pausing only for his boots, not heeding his clothing.  She called from the banks, stripping off her stockings and boots and rolling up her trousers to her knees.  “Do not let him drink yet…not for a short while, or he will be sick.”  Faramir nodded, gently pushing the gelding’s nose away and she relented, “A few palmfuls of water will not hurt him…slowly, and with a pause between.”  He nodded again, obeying carefully. 

The water was cool, swirling around her feet and lower legs as Éowyn waded into the river, using her cupped hands to begin to wash Thorn.  She felt of his neck; it was hot, throbbing with the flow of his blood, then along his shoulder and leg.  The leg seemed well and she felt of it carefully to make certain, but the shoulder was hotter than either his knee or pastern; it was clearly the place of strain.  “He’s hurt himself here…” She touched the long, rippled scar, wondering how deep the wound had been; if it had severed part of a muscle, the tissue would be weaker and might have torn again.  It was not even a year ago…odd, but it felt longer to her heart. 

“How badly?”  Faramir sounded as concerned as a parent would over a child.  It made her smile a bit and she soothed,

“Not terribly, he could walk here, couldn’t he?  And look, he’s putting his weight on it.”  That alone made her certain the injury was not in the hoof or leg.  Éowyn stroked the gelding’s neck, noting that he did not even respond to her unfamiliar touch.  Thorn’s head was lowered, his eyes half-closed, breathing slowly but normally now.  He was very tired and needed rest after being cooled.  She ran her hand over his lax muscles.  Maybe a rubdown… 

But Faramir replied with hesitation, still frowning.  “…yes.  Yes.”

She turned and smiled reassuringly, reaching up to cup his face with her wet hands.  “We will have to wait until he cools to see…but he will be tired, tomorrow morning will tell for certain, if he is not too sore.”  Faramir nodded soberly, trustingly.

“You know more than I.”  She pulled and he leaned downwards, water from her hands forming chill drops that fell from the tip of his chin onto her collarbone.  Faramir met her kiss, soft and brief with his anxiety.

“He will be all right.”  Éowyn smiled, hoping to make him do the same, “You were very magnificent, min cempa.  I cheered you…though I’m sure you couldn’t hear.”  She leaned up to kiss him again, but he pulled back with a smile and a shake of his head,

“Uh-uh…” Her Prince grinned at her, playful mood back, though his warm grey eyes were still tempered with concern.  He looked at her sternly, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.  “I believe another bears that name now.”

“True.”  Éowyn smiled widely, “I shall just have to find another for you.” 

“You will?”  He beamed in pleasure, making her laugh, just as delighted by the prospect.  The he chuckled, eyes alight…until Gaer steals that as well…

He didn’t steal it…he won it.  She laughed at him, knowing he trusted her and was no longer so terribly worried over Thorn.  “I will find a very noble one.”  This time he let her come, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him, feeling her feet squish in the river mud.  “You’re just as filthy as he is…” She kissed him again, then smiled, “Finish with him and yourself while I fetch you something to wear and return this?”  Éowyn pointed to his sheathed sword where it lay on the banks near her stockings and boots, then smiled broadly.  “Get undressed.”

“You expect me to wait here with no clothes at all?”

“Why not?”  She laughed at him, “Do you think I would be so heartless as to…” Éowyn widened her eyes, whispering, “Leave you?”

Faramir chuckled softly, bending to kiss her, “I think you should stay with me.”  He patted Thorn’s side, jesting and pouting endearingly.  “Help me?” 

“I think not…” His wet hands came to her waist and pulled her closer, holding her against the cushion of his soiled doublet.  Éowyn pushed him gently, laughing, “No!”

“Why not?  You know I can’t do it rightly…you’ll have to watch, maybe help…yes, I think I’ll need help…” He nuzzled into her neck, kissing the junction of her shoulder as he bantered.  “Did our bath not teach you anything?”

“Yes…it did teach me something.”  Éowyn answered softly, smiling a little with her own admittance, but her embarrassment at the sound of her voice made ardent and intense and his raised eyebrow soon had her giggling, feeling girlish and silly instead of seductive.  Faramir laughed at her and she was astonished to hear a note of self-consciousness in his reply,

“Is that true…?”  He smiled, lowering his mouth to her neck, murmuring in gentle play, “Perhaps we can learn something more…”

She giggled again and twisted against him, pleased to see that his heart was not too darkened by Thorn’s injury.  “No!  You can take care of yourself, did you not do it for all these years?”

“Ah, but of late I’ve been spoiled by a certain ravishingly delectable Lady…” He kissed her throat and she laughed, thrilling at the contact of his warm mouth. 

“No, now care for your horse, Rídend!”  It was the first time she’d ever called him that and he drew back to look at her.  Faramir appeared surprised, then gradually accepting and contented, making her smile in relief.  The title had been impulsive, slipping off her tongue without a thought.

“Yes, my Lady.”  He undressed awkwardly, handing her the dripping clothing, then, nude, Faramir withdrew to begin splashing more water over Thorn’s side; it would be a long task as the usual grey of his coat was now buff with dust and dirt, his knees smudged green from his fall.  She admired her love for a moment, gazing at his long, lean body, neatly sculpted by muscle, only marred with bruises and scrapes.  Éowyn wondered if he’d ever drawn himself.  Faramir smiled at her as he urged Thorn into deeper water until the horse was half-submerged, the river coming up to give her love some partial modesty, its warm waters lapping around his midsection.  “Will you not stay a moment to help me?”

Persuaded by his boyish grin, Éowyn tossed his waterlogged clothing to the banks and moved to the gelding’s other side.  Her trousers were instantly soaked, water rising under her breasts, making her gasp.  She used her cupped hands to splash water upward against Thorn’s sides—but there was more raining down on her than was going up.  She giggled at once, shielding herself with her palms, “Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

He was soaking her.  “You’re getting me wet!”  Perhaps it was a plan…  Éowyn laughed again, “I’m not going to stay!”

“Am I wetting you?”  Voice innocent, grinning with mischief, Faramir stepped around the horse and as she turned, curved his hands inward, pressing his arms closely, and used them to send a volley of water to douse her front.  Thorn snorted and shook his dripping head; he seemed amused by their antics and she thought that if he were less weary and pained he might have joined them in play.  His lame leg rose to paw clumsily and further wet her.  Hands up to cover herself in poor defense, she laughed,

“No, no!  Thorn!  Don’t you start as well!”

Faramir grinned, declaring in open delight, “I’ve got an ally!”  He smiled, encouraging the horse, “Get her!”  Water was dripping down his chin, gleaming off of his skin as he waded nearer.

“No!  You…you…” Éowyn abandoned all of her futile thoughts of dryness to leap after him, awkward with her cumbersome, soggy clothes, and he began to laugh as they collided.  Her Prince staggered and fell back easily under her drive, still laughing; the sound made her heart leap, so light, so joyous.  But he fell too easily—an instant later, Faramir disappeared, sinking like a stone and as she frowned, he rose just as swiftly.  She felt his arms under her back, her thighs, lifting her high.  Éowyn knew what was coming and shrieked in frantic protest, but he threw her anyway and she fell into the deeper part of the river, surfacing to gasp and kick her way to shallower water.  She retreated, bobbing under the waves made from her splash and cried, “The horse, not me!”

His response was bordering on lurid; Faramir was aware of it, too, grinning brazenly.  “But I’d rather have you wet.”

Éowyn closed her eyes, giggling, embarrassed and delighted by their play, loving this new sensation of thrilling, lovely passion, of enthusiasm without any pressures or fears.  She opened them, smiling uncontrollably, aware of her heavy wet clothing, “Would you?”

“Aye…” His face was crinkled with laughter and he gestured to her, holding his sobriety only a moment before breaking into gasping bursts, snickering, “More pleasing to the eye.”

The water had molded her ample men’s shirt to her breasts and hardened her nipples, the cloth clinging wetly and showing her shape.  She laughed and covered herself, scolding; “You didn’t want me to help!”

“I did…” Faramir guffawed and moved nearer, his grey eyes shining with bliss, “It simply occurred to me that there could be more pleasing means to washing him…” He was very close, arms spread, and she giggled in anticipation.  Faramir lowered to kiss her and she dove away under his arm and then the water, kicking up a great, exuberant splash before surfacing to cry,

“You thought wrongly!”  Backing into the shallows, arms crossed over her front, Éowyn teased, “Scoundrel, I’m going now to be with my champion, a man of more decency!”

Faramir called with a laugh; “I doubt that!”  He met her gaze with a smile and, becoming solemn again, ordered over Thorn’s lowered neck, “Do not forget us.”  Dripping, Éowyn waded back to the grassy bank, plucking his sopping clothing up as she did, the weight of both her soaked clothing and his dragged at her so that her arms ached.  At his nervous call, “Éowyn?” she turned her head, features as puzzled as she could make them,

“What’s that?”  He glowered at her and she laughed, nodding, “I won’t, I won’t.” 

It did not take much time to return to his little canvas tent, passing through crowds that parted easily for her, murmuring at her wetness; she kept his clothing to her bosom, hiding herself.  It was empty and she kneeled, entering and finding Faramir’s familiar bags with ease.  She laid his wet clothing on the ground to dry, carefully wiped his sword’s sheath free of mud and retrieved a pair of trousers, socks, and a linen shirt from his plain sacks.  Within the dark privacy of his tent, she wrested from her soaked shirt and drew on one of his sable high-collared shirts to cover herself and maintain some partial decency.  It smelled of Faramir, stone and wind, the City and she smiled, absurdly comforted.  Backing out of the tent, she was startled.  A less filthy Gaer smiled and inclined his head for her.

“My Lady?”

She nodded, amused that despite the fact that she’d given him license to address her by name, he never seemed to take the very familiar step to do so.  “Gaer…” Éowyn thought to add, “My champion” and was rewarded—the brightness of his smile increased ten-fold and he bowed again,

“My Lady, I ask for my token,” He added quickly, “If it pleases you.”

“I’m afraid I must tend to my Lord first, but…” She smiled, finding his earnestness lovable, “If it pleases you, my champion, we will have our meal this night and then I’ll decorate you as you deserve.”

Gaer grinned and bowed low once more.  “I am very pleased.”  He gestured, “Do not allow your lowly servant to keep you, my Lady.  Is there anything you desire to be fetched…” His grin broadened, “That can lessen the time between now and my reward?”

Laughing at him, Éowyn remembered her thought of giving Thorn a rubdown.  “Do you know the makings of a bracer for the horse and,” She smiled, thinking of Faramir’s wearied face, “My Lord?”  No doubt both bear sore muscles…

“Aye.”  Gaer nodded quickly, “Where shall I bring it?” 

“My tent,” She touched her soaked trousers and smiled.

It was not long before he returned, making her marvel.  Her brother and the Queen sat at the long table outside his tent, playing a board game, drinking wine, laughing merrily together; she sat with them, weary, her hair dripping and listening to the clicking of wooden pieces and their conversation until Gaer approached, carrying a leather flask.  He bowed as he presented it, making her smile, then turned and she called, “We thank you, Gaer, very much.”  Éowyn meant for more than a simple liniment of crushed herbs and heated water.

This time when he bowed it was with a solemn expression, his voice entirely sober and holding no jests, “It is my pleasure to serve you, my Lady.”  He retreated and she watched for a moment before retracing her steps to the Snowbourn. 

Faramir and Thorn were out of the river, the grey lying flat on the grass-covered banks, her love sitting beside him and leaning against the horse’s back, still nude, of course.  The eyes of both were closed.  They looked charmingly pastoral and she smiled, holding up the wad of dry, clean clothing and saying quietly, “I did not forget.”  The bracer she held in her other hand, a strong solution of herbs and water mixed with oil.

“Good.”  Faramir barely stirred, only peeping at her through his dark eyelashes.  Thorn did much the same, turning a large ear, making her laugh softly.

“Are you very weary?”  Éowyn sat by him, well out of the way in case the horse decided to stand, disturbed by her less familiar presence.  His grey eyes peeped at her again and he smiled, laboriously turning his head to look at her. 

His response was a long sigh, then a tiny nod.  “Yes.”

“Very sore?”  She looked up and down his body, frowning at the blemishes and wishing to make them disappear.  You are just like a lad…all scraped and scratched…  Éowyn smiled.  You weren’t like this in the City. 

No, I wasn’t…  After answering her inner words, he turned his face up to the heat of the sun, sighing in clear pleasure, “Some.”

Éowyn’s gaze turned to the pleasing lines of his muscles, muscles that would undoubtedly be beginning to stiffen; the longer she let him lie there the worse it would feel when he stood.  She offered, “Would you like a rubdown?”

This time he lifted his head, blinking, then smiling widely.  “Yes.”  Faramir grinned at her, nudging his shoulder against Thorn’s side, “What of him?”

“Him, too…it will do you good.”  She squeezed his arm, “Keep you from stiffening.”

“I have to do it?”  All at once, Faramir sounded much more pitiable and on purpose, fluttering his eyelashes at her and groaning loudly when he shifted.

Éowyn laughed at him, then sighed, moving a bit of his hair out of his eyes.  “I will help…” She smiled, “If you hurt so much.”

His face brightened, “Then I can lie here a moment more?”

She laughed at his enthusiasm, “Yes.”

“Come here with me.”  Éowyn scooted nearer, surprised when he pillowed his head on her lap, cheek to her thigh.  She stroked his damp hair, running her fingers through it, untangling it and feeling terribly protective.  Faramir touched her sleeve, fingering the fine, rich fabric.  “This is my shirt.”

“Yes.”  She smiled again, then said with mild firmness and slight hesitation in the act of commanding him.  “No more contests…for this day at least.”  Éowyn bent and kissed his sun-warmed brow, softening her direction, “You need rest.”

“Hmmph.”  He made a noise of equal parts disappointment and relief, then stirred, “Sing?”  Faramir smiled against her trousers, “My song?”

She watched birds flit in the trees.  “I haven’t thought of more yet.”

He sounded drowsy, murmuring, “You should.”

Éowyn laughed and nuzzled closer, enjoying their coziness.  “You should come with me tomorrow…look through the market, see if there is anything Meduseld needs.”  She hesitated, wondering, then teased, “I could buy you a present, something to take back to the City.”  But he nodded at once, complacent and entirely unperturbed.  Éowyn added softly, “I liked your presents.”  She’d not thought to grab one this morning, but silently vowed to wear something he’d bought her tomorrow.

“Good.”

They lay still and she felt the warmth of his body, the heat of the sun, heard the soft, deep breaths of the sleeping horse next to them.  It was pleasantly restful, soothing, giving her peace and relief from all troubles.  It was very…simple, she thought, not at all what one would imagine the Prince of Ithilien to be doing—lying nude on the banks of a river far from his lands, leaning against the bulk of his horse, his head resting on his Lady’s lap.  Not wanting to move, Éowyn fingered a few coarse strands of Thorn’s mane, then twisted a bit of her Prince’s silky hair between her fingertips.  The difference lay not in color, but in fineness, as both were nearly the same shade of coal black.  She touched Thorn’s side, felt his drying coat quiver, then Faramir’s shoulder.  He stirred just a little and she smiled as his arms slid around her and he rolled from his side to his belly; he lay nearly atop her now as she sat, shoulders pillowed on Thorn, and Faramir lifted his head so that their eyes met. 

His grey ones were weary, but content, peeking at her through a few wet and clumped tufts of his sable hair.  Faintly, Éowyn laughed into them, feeling a strange blend of emotions—tenderness, desire, nervousness.  She wanted to hold him, to keep him safe, to make sure her heart never leapt into her throat like it had when Thorn had fallen and Gaer’s horse had been but a stride from trampling her love.  Her dark dream had come to mind: falling from a horse, being unable to rise while terrified voices called…  Shuddering, Éowyn whispered again, “You scared me…” 

“Mmm.”  He glanced down and sighed.  For a moment she looked at the crown of his dark head, then his long, arms that held him up, behind him the stretch of his flattened body.  She was very aware of his long legs as he shifted them, one of his thighs lying halfway across her leg, flattening her down to the soft grass; as he moved to brace himself, one knee fell between her legs.  Grit clung to his elbows as he lifted his chin up again to look at her, about to rise, his palms flat to the grass. 

Impulsively, she leaned forward and caught him in a kiss that lingered.  Éowyn didn’t want it to stop, feeling terribly protective.  He smiled in weary reassurance and she pressed her palms to his cheeks, thinking it strange that their position was so amorous, yet she felt nothing of the sort.  He was propped half atop her, upper body angled over hers, his long leg stretched beside her, one knee braced between her thighs, yet…it was nothing, the mere comfort of his body near hers.  She was confused and, oddly, relieved.  It is pleasant…

His reply was slow.  Mmm…hmm…Faramir leaned down, kissing her warmly before smiling.  She returned his smile, feeling all unease and hesitation vanish.  Éowyn hugged him tighter, delighting in how close he was, how she could feel him without any fears.  His low, emotional laugh and the kindly spark in his grey eyes meant he was rejoicing as well.  His mind touched hers and his deep, silent thanks nearly made her sob—he was terribly proud of her. 

I love you…

I love you.  He shifted back to crouch on his knees and shook his hair from his face and shoulders, smiling gently.  She eyed him, having entirely forgotten his nakedness.  Éowyn reached up to finger a bit of his chest hair.

I did not even think of…

Good…I think…he chuckled, dropping down to all fours again with an oomph! of weariness.  She gasped in surprise, giggling when he kissed her.  Their eyes met and his radiated love, shining like polished steel, the grey of them somehow bright and not at all dull.  Arms wrapping about his neck, she laughed at him as Faramir groaned and grumbled, nuzzling into her throat and sounding like a pig rooting for grubs.  A burst of heated breath and laughter against her sensitive skin meant he’d caught her thoughts.  A pig?

Yes! 

It’s not grubs that I want… 

Éowyn squealed as he lowered his head again, sensing his mirth.  Seconds later she laughed and laughed while he burrowed and growled and complained with coarse grunts, nuzzling his chin into her throat no matter how she twisted and pushed against him, her hands weak with merriment.  Behind them Thorn raised his head, ears pinned in protest of their clamor.  His tail lashed, slapping hard across her Prince’s bare backside, making him yelp and cease.  Éowyn giggled breathlessly, feeling flushed with laughter.  Her voice was weakened with it.  “That’s…what you deserve.”

“Is it?”

“Mmm…yes.”  At her giggle, he bent again and she smiled, anticipative.  His mouth was warm, meeting hers and angling, noses brushing, his tongue just sliding against her own in a teasing touch.  His kiss was wonderful, as always, making her tingle as it went on and on, slower, then faster, so that her heart raced with eagerness.  She wrapped her arms about his bare shoulders, feeling the hardness of his shoulder blades, the hale muscles under his warm, smooth skin, the tangle of his hair.  Éowyn tugged it gently.  Stallion’s mane…

He smiled against her mouth.  You may call it that.

She laughed, pulling him closer, her world shrunk to the tiny distance between their faces, their bodies.  He beamed at her, so happy, so content.  At length, after many more kisses, Faramir rose.  She stood with him and together they urged the prone Thorn into rising as well.  The horse gathered his feet with clear reluctance.  Her Prince soothed him, holding the grey’s big head in his arms, cradling it to his bare chest in a surprisingly tender gesture.

She looked at them and saw that Thorn’s eyes were closed, perfectly trusting as Faramir held him and murmured into one ear.  She couldn’t hear the words and did not attempt to; they were private, some gentle conversation between a rider and his horse.  He plucked bits of grass from Thorn’s mane while Éowyn poured a generous handful of the liniment into her hands and began to gently rub the horse’s body, neck to hoof, working each muscle.  It was still warm and smelled good with the strong scent of fresh plants.  Silently, she marveled at Gaer’s obedience. 

Her love looked at her over Thorn’s back, getting some of the solution.  She could feel his presence effortlessly, a warmth touching her soul, so it was little surprise that he caught her thoughts again.  “This is his work?”

“Yes…” She smiled, then laughed, “He is very swift to obey me.”

Faramir was teasing her, making pouting eyes at her, “Is that so?”

“Aye.”

His voice became even sulkier as he came to her side, rubbing gently over Thorn’s broad rump.  “Do you like him more than me?”

She burst into laughter, shoving him away.  He came back and kissed her, putting his wet, slippery hands to her face and holding her so that she grimaced and laughed.  “No…ugh!”  As she slapped his shoulder, Faramir retreated to continue his rubbing.  Under their hands, Thorn groaned and lowered his head, eyes closed, obviously enjoying the efforts.  Éowyn rubbed her wet cheeks against her arms, grimacing; it made her skin tingle. 

With two, the horse was soon finished and she stepped away, watching Faramir rub the grey’s shoulder one last time and turn to her.  He smiled; “My turn?” and she felt a flutter in her stomach.  He was still nude.

“Yes.”  Éowyn bit her lip to contain her girlish giggles, not sure why she felt so silly.  “Put on your trousers at least…” He pouted as she added, sternness spoiled by a smile, “I’m only doing what you can’t reach yourself, you lazy thing.”  Her Prince grudgingly obeyed, rubbing some of the solution into his legs and thighs with sighs of pleasure stirring enough to make her flush and direct a few laughs to the ground.  He noticed and became louder; trying to contain her giggles, Éowyn stared at him until he clothed himself from the waist down.  She smiled, “Come here.”

Faramir’s eyes were alight as he did and she turned him, wetting both palms with the fragrant mixture and standing on her tiptoes to rub his shoulders.  “Oh…ahhh…” Immediately he groaned and his head dropped, hair hanging loosely.

 Just like that horse…  She laughed, parting his inky mane and standing on tiptoe again to shove it over his shoulders and give herself better access.  Her hands moved over his lightly muscled back, his upper arms, his sides, feeling him respond to each touch: he sighed, he moaned faintly; he made many noises of satisfaction.  Éowyn took pleasure in the feel of his flesh, pausing to gently rub each bared part of him, to turn him and press her hands to his chest.  He was firm in body, both muscle and bone, swaying just slightly on his long legs as she put more effort into the rubdown, kneading and slicking his skin with the liniment.  Nearly finished, she played a bit, patting his stomach, amused at the hollow sound.  Éowyn laughed, then her hand moved more purposely to his side, yet stopped at once, lingering, fingers circling with hesitation.

She felt the pressure of Faramir’s gaze when she touched his scar, the twisted dimple from where the healers had withdrawn the bolt; Éowyn looked up, apprehensive, and he smiled quietly.  Her Prince took both her damp hands and held them, turning them so that her palms faced the sky, then held the one alone, the hand and arm that had been struck by coldness.  He stroked her arm, gentle fingertips moving across her skin, pushing up the loose sleeve of his shirt and Éowyn’s throat tightened.  Faramir asked, nearly inaudible, “Does it ever feel…?”

She shook her head, voice tiny.  “No.”

“My Healer, healed…” He seemed very intent and bent to kiss her.  The touch of his mouth was benediction; he was warm, alive, desiring of life, a beginning within a man, her beginning.  She put her free hand to his face, holding him closely for fear of losing the feeling he gave her—blessing, joy, of being redeemed and saved from darkness.   

Éowyn nodded, whispering her reply and feeling her heart beating with some strange anxiety, “Healed…yes…” Breaking their closeness, she turned her head away, unsure and breathing roughly.  Was she healed, was she whole again, able to do what she must to live in the happiness she’d tasted of in the last few days?  His words from long ago came to her…a garden…and she swallowed, suddenly unable to speak.  As if in solace, her Prince leaned low and kissed her hand, mouth warm on her palm, the touch igniting a wave of warmth that rose in her chest.  It was the warmth of love, desire…fear and this warmth could not exist together.  She was unafraid.

When he rose, his dark hair was in his eyes and he looked very disheveled, very handsome, and still intense.  She cupped his face, then simply hugged him, not trusting herself to meet his gaze; she was afraid she would weep.  He laughed, confirming shakily, “Mended, healed…” Éowyn nodded, staring at his throat, watching it bob as he swallowed and muttered, “Can we have it now, the house of peace, the garden?”

She nodded, but heard her own uncertainty.  “Yes…” Not replying at first, Faramir sighed, then hugged her back just as tightly, his chin dropping to rest upon her shoulder.  For the first time he seemed just as uncertain as she, which made her nervous, made her feel strangely adrift without his firm guidance.  It was always his vision…always…that drove them despite any difficulties.  Éowyn shivered as she sensed his uncertainty; it was as if the earth had shifted beneath her.

What…is it?  His lean body pressed to hers, warmed by the sun, smelling of the bracer—mint, other herbs and horse.

His eventual response shocked her, spoken as it was in bursts of raw frustration.  “I…I don’t want to leave…the Mark.”

“You…don’t?”

“Not yet…I like it here.”  Faramir smiled, clearly a little ashamed.

“Oh.”  She was pleased, yet unsure of his reaction, hiding her instant smile.  Her Prince did not speak further and Éowyn absorbed his words, then thought wryly that this would make her ambitions easier to achieve. 

But he caught her thoughts this time and frowned, “What…?”  Faramir looked confused, “You think of my City.”  

She took a breath, gathering her courage.  “I want…to go to the City by…myself.”  Éowyn told herself fiercely that that was a shameful display for a daughter of Kings and repeated more firmly, “I want to go to Minas Tirith by myself.”

Faramir stared at her, his brow creasing as he took a step away, frowning, “Why?”

She licked her lips, hands clasping each other to squeeze.  “I…don’t want to burden you…” Hadn’t she always felt a burden to him?

“No.  No.”  He shook his head at once, clearly disturbed.  “You will be no burden, Éowyn…my love.  Never.”  Her Prince exhaled, and by its distressed nature she knew that she’d hurt him.

Again.  Éowyn closed her eyes.

“How can you think that?  Why?”  He sounded frustrated once more and this time she was the cause.  Faramir’s words cut, making her flinch bleakly.  “How many times must I reassure you before you listen?”

How many times indeed…  Éowyn felt a wave of horrible guilt.  It has been too many times and I will not stand for more!  Her determination came back, making her straighten and look him in the eye.  “Faramir, I’ll keep you from your duties, I know nothing, I will be useless, you’ll have to be constantly running away from your people, Aragorn or your Council to aid me…”

He answered with a touch of desperation, a pleading smile.  “I might like that.” No longer so angry, Faramir smiled at her, obviously seeking to lighten her mood.  He took her hands as if in apology for his words.

“For a day, perhaps, not a month.”  She would be a disappointment, a hindrance.  She would shame him with her ignorance.

His grey eyes narrowed, turning inward to admonish her tensely.  No, no burden…please…stop…the shame is in your mind, not mine!  His answer burned with sincere indignation.  Do not think to put it there, Éowyn!  I will not permit it!

“Yes…but…” She felt nerves again, meeting his gaze.  If he pleaded, she was uncertain that she could hold firm.  It was almost easier if he remained angry.  And if he commands me to stay?  He was her Lord though he never exercised his authority; she had little right to contest him.  “But I do not wish to keep you from your folk…they need you and it will make you resent me to constantly leave them to aid me.  Do not say that it will not!”  She pleaded, thinking quickly to charge his soul with compassion.  Do you not remember them, the children, the women, the widows and orphans?  The ones that you aided…and those you did not get a chance to?

“Yes.”  Answering both her pleas in a single word, he hung his head for a beat.  She felt his thoughts, but could not hear them, merely sense their swiftness, flashes of anger, unease.  Éowyn knew she’d won even before he lifted his gaze to ask quietly.  “You will leave me here?”

It was Éowyn’s turn to smile and soothe, “You said you liked the Mark.”

Faramir looked around himself and seemed less convinced.  “I liked you in it with me.  I’ll be alone.”

She hesitated.  “You have my brother.”  To her joy, he did not immediately reject her words, but cocked his head at her as though he was deeply considering them.  Éowyn smiled hopefully, “Gaer will not let you be unhappy…I will command him to keep to your side and make merry.”  She laughed, “He will undertake the duty with his entire being.”

“Will you?”  He smiled back at her, but it was grey with dejection.  “What will you do in my City…what is so great to seek alone…” His hand took hers, tightly, needily grasping, “To leave me for?”  Faramir’s features were touched by pain, his voice no louder than a rough mutter, “Why do you push me away…still?”

No…she did not mean to push him away, not at all. 

That is what it feels like.

Please…  She took a long time to reply, searching.  “I…” It came all at once, “I cannot live with you, when you are my courage.”  I cannot go on knowing myself in constant debt!

Her Prince was frowning.  “Am I now?”

“Yes…and no.”  Éowyn smiled at him, feeling her trembles.  They were deep into intimate territory.  “It is better…I am better…but you’ve made me better…”

“We.”

“No, you.”        Faramir frowned at her, creases running even deeper as he listened, clearly objecting to her words, but allowing her to go on without interruption.  “I don’t want to lean on you any more, don’t want to be able to run to you…” He shook his head, still frowning, but she continued.  “I want to be strong for you, to be the Lady of Ithilien, to help you, to be what you need me to be.”

He sounded confused.  “But…you are.”  Have I ever demanded more than you can give?  His inner voice was incensed.

No…  Éowyn knew her own shaky uncertainty, her nervousness in the imagination of Minas Tirith’s high walls, the Hall of Feasts, the White Tower.  “No, but when you return to your City, I will be.”

Abruptly, Faramir strode away from her, pacing the riverbanks.  He was angry.  “How long?”

“I don’t know…”

“I need to stay…” He glanced around them at the peaceful river and she followed his gaze from Thorn, lying once more on the grass, to the trees, the fields, the tents of the festival.  “No more than a few weeks…?”  Éowyn nodded and he moved to hug her tightly, needy once more.  “I don’t think I could go without you for any longer.”

She laughed a little, “You could.”

His sense of play had returned, if only mild.  Faramir shook his head, smiling faintly.  “No…” He sighed, then smiled a bit more shamefacedly, revealing, “Éomer released me yesterday…we could be in Edoras now, packing.”  He paused, “It was very generous of him, very hard for him.”

“He did?”  Her brother had more courage than she’d thought.  I love you, Éomer, my dear brother how I shall miss you…  Meeting Faramir’s gaze, Éowyn asked cautiously, “Why aren’t we?”  She would have guessed that he’d jumped at the chance to return to his home, his people.

His response was confused, matching her confusion.  Again she felt his uncertainty.  “I wanted to stay…I like it here…though my people need me…” That was truly how she’d broken his anger and resolve.  Her love sighed deeply, “You are right, you should go, help them.  They are more important.”

“I will…” How exactly, Éowyn was unsure.  She consoled, “Aragorn said he would help me.”

Hurt crossed Faramir’s face and he stared at her, asking in irritation, “You will let him help, but not me?”  He paused, then burst out, “Why him, not me?”

Alarmed to hear a rare note of jealousy in his words, Éowyn sought to explain her heart.  “You’ve helped…too much, you should not have had to come, to fight, to prove…anything!  Do you understand?  You’ve done enough, too much.  Let me do the rest…come to the City, find your…” She swallowed, promising, “Wife waiting, your home planned, wedding readied, your people helped…”

His eyes had widened, perhaps seeing all that she promised.  She felt his hope, his surge of pleasure in the vision and Faramir smiled as he agreed, “All right, if you wish it.”  His smile became quieter, “Éomer will be very hurt…I will stay, if only for his sake…I feel how it hurt him to release me, how much it took…” He trailed off, glancing away.  “I will be poor companionship to his mind, but better than none at all, I would guess.”

Grief burned in Éowyn’s chest, constraining her voice.  “I will miss him.”  She looked away as well, trying to hide the tears that rose in her eyes.  “My brother.”

“We’ll come back this winter.  I promise.”  She nodded and his arm came around her waist, clasping tight.  “Let us go and tell him, now, so that we can still be merry today.”  Éowyn nodded again and he let her go.  She remembered her brother playing a game with Arwen, laughing, cheering for Faramir at the tourney; it haunted her as watched Faramir approach the sprawled out horse, kneeling on the grass to stroke Thorn’s neck.  The grey lifted his big head a little, as if in surprise, then stretched back out with a grumble.  Faramir’s lips moved, but she could hear nothing.  With one last pat to the gelding’s neck, he rose and finished clothing himself.

Her Prince offered his hand with a smile.  Taking it, Éowyn returned his smile, feeling jittery.  Soon, she would embark upon her quest.  Her heart skipped, both nervous and joyous.  I will be free…but not forever and that reassured her.  You will come and everything will be as it should…  Faramir turned and smiled, squeezing her hand in silent acknowledgment.

I cannot wait, my love…his dream flew through her mind in a series of images—lofty trees, vivid flowers, low pale walls, arches that opened into long, green fields, a rich house, herself smiling.  Éowyn laughed and hugged his arm, all fears gone as only Faramir could make them. 

As it should be…

***

 Éomer almost didn’t notice his sister’s arrival.  Arwen had gotten terribly good at the game, the same game he’d tried to play with Faramir not too long ago.  The Queen was winning, herding him away from the corners and preventing him from reaching asylum and victory.  She teased, “And I’ve never organized a field of battle…Éomer, you should be ashamed!”

He jested back at her, gingerly moving a wooden piece.  “This is why I have Marshals.”

“What does a Marshal do in the Mark?”

“Takes care of things…gives me accounts of my folk, sends claims…” He stared at the board.  I’m going to lose…nevertheless, Éomer sent one more of his pieces to a valiant death, moving it into the open to free his King.  If he made a dash and was lucky, he might win.  Terribly lucky…  “He rides and keeps order in the Mark, dealing with my folk for me.”  So that I can sit and rot, grow soft in luxury!  Éomer glanced around himself, feeling rebellion grow bright within his breast.  Once his sister was gone, the notion of sitting in Edoras held no appeal.  I will ride out…he looked down again, heart aching.  There would be no one to protest and demand to ride out, too, no one to give another opinion or save him from a foolish decision.  Sister…what would he do alone?  Éomer stared at the roughly chiseled squares that made up the board.  He would soon find out.

“He is a Steward.”

“I suppose…” He snorted, “If that is what Faramir does when he is not cooped into a room full of useless, weak men.”

Arwen slaughtered his warrior and rallied another of hers to come for him.  “They are not useless to the City, though they would be within your country.”  She smiled, “They command much power among the noble, swaying them to Estel’s side, are very wealthy and…” Her elven eyes twinkled, “Are very bothersome.”  He laughed and she elaborated, “Faramir does more than that, Estel has told me his praises.”

“Like what?”  He was truly curious.

“He helps with Estel’s accounts and books, tallies the profits from taxes and helps decide where the money will be spent.  He is the head of the King's court in his absence.”  Arwen glanced at him, “He would be now.”  Éomer pretended not to hear.  “He listens to claims like this Marshal of yours, goes out among the people for Estel…” She finished easily, “But he spent much time in hiding this summer, engulfed in his studies.”

Éomer knew what studies she spoke of and refused to feel guilt.  Look how happy he is!  How would he be now if I had not made it required that he learn our tongue, our ways?  His teeth ground against each other.  Happier…the Steward would be in the City with his sister now, wed, living as they should.  I do not stand in their way any longer!  When he glanced away from the board again, Éowyn had come, naturally with Faramir; their arms were linked and their hands clasped, only parting when they sat near to him.

He frowned, looking at them closely.  “You’re wet.”

His sister self-consciously touched her darkened hair and smiled.  “We were at the river.”

Éomer tried to throw off his sad heart.  He glowered sternly, jesting; “You’re both wet, must I insist on a guard again?”  With a gesture, he complained, “This is a shameless display, at the least.”

Faramir smiled and stretched with a deep yawn.  He chuckled, turning his face up to the warmth of the sun and sliding downward in his chair, slumping in a very relaxed fashion.  Éomer doubted he’d seen him so relaxed in the Mark.  “I vow it was no more than bathing my horse.”

“He splashed me.”  Scolding without fire, Éowyn took her lover’s arm to hold. 

He blinked, surprised that he believed the Steward so easily and even more so that he did not truly care.  I trust him.  Éomer was speechless, staring at the scarred wooden board in silence and pretending to think about his strategy. 

“Éomer is right…you young things go about as though you were already wed.”  The Queen shook her head, “If Estel and I had shown ourselves in such condition…”

Éomer chuckled as a thought struck.  “Perhaps they already are.”

“What nonsense is that?”  His sister stared at him, slumping down into her chair in an unconscious mimicry of her lover.

He reminded her.  “Our joinings are simple.”

Faramir watched their game, his normally piercing eyes half-lidded.  “You are fortunate.”  Arwen agreed with a nod, her bright elven gaze trained to the board and busily figuring out ways to defeat him.  At his side, Éowyn’s eyes widened and she played with the hem of her shirt, suddenly fidgeting.  The Steward reached over immediately to catch her hand, pressing it to his chest and soothingly stroking it.  Éomer smiled, bolstered by how readily his sister relaxed again.  Faramir would take excellent care of her.  Cheered, he went on to inform,

“A Lord announces the intent to the people and if all agree, then it is done.”  His sister knew that, she’d watched him wed many of their folk, those that bothered with it, this summer.  At their puzzled expressions, Éomer couldn’t keep the grin from his face.  “What did I do at Uncle’s feast, again?”

They both blinked at him and he looked back, innocently turning to the board again to move a piece into certain death.  Arwen shook her head at them in slight disapproval.  Her voice was very low, “Toying with those young ones, you should be ashamed.”

He laughed, trying to find a way to win and knowing already it was a mere show for his vanity.  “I’ve more to be ashamed for, I’m sure.”  Éomer glanced to the Steward and his jesting mood darkened.  Many things…  Forcibly, he renewed it, saying thoughtlessly, “It will have to wait.”  Neither his sister, nor Faramir had spoken.  He could see them thinking of it, their daze in the imaginations of it and Éomer smiled, “Of course, it is against custom to wed at a burial ceremony."  His smile faded in a moment of grief, then reappeared.  “Otherwise…”

“Yes.”  Faramir recovered from the shock first.  He sighed, “What did you say, announcing, then…” His eyes were closed once more, enjoying the sunlight, “A feast, perhaps?”

Éomer was quieter now; they were no longer within the realm of jest.  “There would be a great celebration for my sister, all of our folk that could come, would.  It would last for days, much like this festival.” 

With the same touch of discomfort in her face, she managed to smile at him, leaning forward to tap a place on the board.  “Move here.”  Arwen exhaled in exasperation when he did so, quickly reorganizing her attack.  Éomer stared at the board, uncertain of what he’d missed.

The Steward mulled for a few minutes, then sighed again.  “Mmm…is there any chance I could wed in Rohan?”

Éowyn spoke before Éomer could even come up with a response.  Relieved, he listened to her, noting her anxious frown.  “What are…joinings like in the City?”

Faramir groaned.  “Long-winded…and that is simply the rite itself.”  He shook his head; “I witnessed several of the noble folk by Elessar.  It was wearying.”

The Queen smiled, disagreeing.  “It is a day of ceremony, celebration, parading about on each other’s arm to show the City your union.”  She sighed, “Then speaking with the noble folk, the feast that lasts hours, the entertainment…all designed to make you wait.  They see you to your marriage bed, then finally, you are left alone.”  Arwen smiled again.

Éowyn looked horrified, but she held her tongue.  After a moment or two, Faramir cleared his throat, speaking slowly, gently, “You can ask Aragorn about it when you go to the City.” 

“Yes, yes.”

The Steward’s words seemed odd to him and Éowyn’s response had been tense.  Éomer frowned.  His sister glanced at him, then away, fidgeting again; this time, Faramir did not soothe her.  He looked expectant, if not entirely pleased.  She was plainly nervous and he wondered why, asking cautiously, “What is it?”

Her gaze was fixed upon the wooden board.  “I’ve decided that…when Aragorn goes to the City, I shall, too.”

Éomer felt his heart wrench; he disguised it by nodding quietly to the Steward.  “You took my offer.”  For a moment he felt relief; he could release his guilt, no longer holding them back.

But Faramir shook his head slightly.  His mouth tightened and his voice had returned to its perfect, practiced neutrality—a sure sign that he was displeased and striving to hide it.  “No, I will stay a while.”

“Then…?”  He was confused, looking to Arwen.  But the Queen merely shook her head in equal confusion.

Éowyn clarified slowly, “I-I wish to go, to learn what my duties are, so that I will not be a burden.”  His sister was staring at her lap.  Faramir’s face grew even grimmer, his fingers drumming against the table before he stilled them and the emotion they revealed, but he did not speak out against her.  “I want to learn my station before I must wed.”

“Oh.”  She was leaving and he was left with the Steward to care for?  Éomer felt a tiny bit of comfort…I will not be alone…amongst his terrible grief—a turbulent river rushing to numb his entire being with sorrow.  My sister…  “If that is what you wish and Faramir does not object, I see no reason not…to go…” He choked a little, then firmed, using all his strength to speak rationally, normally and unlike his heart was a burning spot of pain in his chest.  “When do you think…Aragorn will return from Isengard?” 

Éowyn whispered, “Soon.”

He turned away, pretending to focus upon his guards, who were seated nearby and playing a game of knucklebones, well out of his way, knowing his distaste in them.  Éomer felt a strange emptiness in his breast; a lack of pain, a void he was afraid would fill with such grief that he could not stand it.  Please…but the pain did not come, only emptiness, only a great void.  There were many empty places in his heart, by his side, father, mother, uncle, cousin…sister.  A week’s ride away, that is not so far…not so far…  He bowed his head, trying to hold on, to not shame himself with pleas or weeping.

When he’d gathered himself to turn back, Faramir was gazing at him, his features growing steadily more saddened and crossed with deep, pained empathy.  Did he feel his emotions?  Thinking so, Éomer tried not to notice at first, but it was an impossible task…simply because he did not wish to ignore the man.  The distress upon his face inspired gratitude and to a rare depth; because of Faramir’s gift, someone understood his pain.  He smiled faintly at the Steward, feeling a strange sense of companionship, of rapport.  It was not unpleasant.  Perhaps this feeling was what allowed his sister to tolerate Faramir’s second sight.

His silence has stretched; Éowyn tapped her fingers to another place on the board, trying to resume their simple chatter.  Her voice was hushed, a murmur, “Move here.”

Obediently, Éomer moved his piece.  He no longer cared to play.  “Will we have another day, at least?”  He knew she could ride to Edoras and wait for the King.

Éowyn was gazing at him just as sadly as her lover was; Éomer was almost stirred to comfort them.  “I will stay another day.”

All would happen as he’d thought it would, the only difference was that his sister would not be within Edoras when he and the Steward returned.  Never again…Éomer bowed his head, nodding, barely able to speak above a rough whisper.  “If that is what you want.”

Her voice quavered, thick with sadness, “It is.”  She scooted closer to lean against his shoulder, “Émer…” He couldn’t help the tears that rose.  Faramir looked sharply away, staring over the festival where all was merry still.  The Queen leaned back from the board that no longer mattered. 

Éowyn was hugging him tightly.  Faramir sought to comfort her, to comfort him, murmuring gently to them both, “Winter is not long.”  When Éomer looked to him, the Steward quickly glanced away as though ashamed of something.  He is guilty?  He was overcome with the desire to relieve the man, yet knew not how. 

“Yes.”  His sister’s eyes met his.  “We will come, stay…”

He answered bleakly, “I will be here.”  Except for his sister’s tight embrace, there was nothing for a long moment.  Éomer took a deep breath.  He’d had long enough to cope with her absence.  He glanced to the Queen and smiled a little, remembering her counsel to leave, to do as he liked.  Who is Lord?  Éomer wrapped his arm around his sister’s side, feeling how she was no longer thin, no longer rigid with nerves, but hale, healthy, saddened as he was, but healed.  He smiled faintly.  Who is Lord?  I am.  Éowyn hugged him tighter, the point of her chin digging briefly into the muscle of his shoulder.  He heard her sniffle, felt his own urge to weep.  It was only the way she felt that staved off his tears—healthy, her cheeks or collarbone not hollow at all, her skin glowing golden from the sun, her form restored to health, beauty; his sister was flourishing again, thriving in happiness.  And who must I thank?  Without an instant hesitation, he glanced to the Steward, who still faced away, his features lined, joyless and touched by guilt.  Him.  He could hold no more bitterness.

He closed his eyes for another brief second, shoring up his courage.  Perhaps I will visit Mirkwood…the fool notion nearly sparked laughter.  Éomer smiled a little.  He was all right; he would be all right.  Éowyn would be happy; he was quite assured that Faramir would keep her so.  My heart…he glanced again to Arwen.  Will heal as my sister has healed.  He squeezed Éowyn’s shoulders and took a breath, saying with a sense of cheer that began as forced, “I will not allow such sadness…” Éomer felt his chest loosen, “Come.”  He gestured at the board while they looked to him, one by one.  Faramir’s gaze was particularly gentle, tinged by compassion, something he found that he appreciated far, far more than scorned.  “A game before her new champion receives his reward?” 

There were forced smiles from his sister and her Prince.  With a quiet, cheerful nod, Arwen smoothly swept the pieces from the board, her nimble elven fingers easily separating them.  Éomer met the Steward’s grey eyes again, finding them to be still full of empathy, even guilt.  He thinks he causes my pain…he was touched by wonder and affection and at the last moment, instead of playing with his sister, he changed his mind.  “Lads against the lasses?”

Arwen agreed instantly, beaming at him in such approval that he could not hide his pleasure in her pride and Éomer flushed, cursing his fair skin.  Éowyn gave him one last, crushing hug, then rose to pull her chair to sit at Arwen’s side, facing her love.  The Steward regarded him with part incredulity; the rest seemed a struggle, several emotions warring upon his features.  He looked like he wished to be happy, to smile, but did not quite dare to assume anything was being offered.

Touched by the man, Éomer grinned and took on a tone of great, scheming wisdom, “Yes, Faramir will not be able to cheat me if he is my ally.”  He grinned, not having to feign his scowl much, “As you did before.”  He was easing, no longer so drawn with grief.  His pain was a mere whisper of protest, my sister…and fading to a dull bruise, an ache that would ease…eventually.

The Steward replied merrily, even if his eyes did study him more carefully than his words warranted, “I assure you, I only cheated with the riddles…and that was because I was drunk.”  He scooted his chair a bit closer, in reach of the board.

Éomer burst into hearty laughter, startling himself as he grinned.  “I know you were.”  Faramir glanced at him warily before he smiled back.  I hold no grudge with you, Faramir…  He could not speak the words in their company.  His cowardice had returned and, frustratingly, closed his throat.  Across the wide table, his sister was smiling at him, clearly pleased.  Éomer nodded in reply, his heart still tender.

 Éowyn plucked up the largest piece of all, holding it upon her palm.  “Who is King?”

Éomer laughed and took it from her, “I am.”  He glanced aside to the silent man who awaited him, “I trust your counsel will bring us victory…” Faramir’s eyes widened imperceptibly, then he smiled a little, still watchful.  Éomer was trying his best to extend himself in friendship.  “Especially with your unique talents, my friend…” He made himself grin, then added, “Another reason to have you upon my side.” 

His sister protested.  “Unfair.”

The Queen smiled and gazed at the Steward.  “Do not worry, Éowyn.  This youth of yours will glean no secrets from me.”

Faramir chuckled, “You should have chosen our esteemed Queen.”

Éomer smiled, confiding, “I have faith in you.  Did you not serve in,” He paused to remember the name of the green country, “Ithilien?  Leading orcs about in circles to your darts?  Or did I hear about some other great Captain?”  Again the Steward’s eyes flicked to him, widening just the slightest bit. 

His answer held caution.  “Aye…”

“Then help me, kinsman, or this elf will win again!”  Gesturing to the board with a laugh that did not hold as much effort as he would have imagined, Éomer found that, curiously, he took pleasure in the man’s astonishment, seeing within his sister’s paramour that satisfaction and merriment bloomed in the lack of any censure of his.  I must take care…one carelessly hurtful word and their delicate camaraderie would be crushed.  And, he found he did not want that at all.  Odd…all the former pleasure he’d taken in needling the man had now shifted so that he took more enjoyment in honoring the Steward, in seeing Faramir’s guard lower and his face break into a smile that held no caution, no care. 

“Yes, pit your skill against mine, dear Steward, and we shall see the experience that years give!”  Arwen smiled.  Éowyn was gazing at him, adoration in her gaze. 

The open and occasionally vocal approval of both women was not lost upon Éomer, either.  He smiled a little, is it witchery?  “Faramir bears more than one advantage.”  Éomer patiently included the man in his first movement, asking with a raised brow if he agreed upon the rough square as a fitting place to launch their attack.  Faramir did, nodding almost imperceptibly.

Éowyn watched them closely while Arwen questioned, “Is that so?”

“Aye.”  The Steward was looking at him in curiosity. 

The Queen made her first move.  “And what is it?”

“Sorcery…he is a witch, after all.”  He watched the man flinch, then carefully, so carefully and timidly begin to realize that he was not insulting him in any way, but only jesting with them all.  Éomer smiled at him, eager for him to realize this fact.  What I used as a weapon, I do no longer…wedbroðer.

His sister knew him best and was quick to beam and ask in a lightly playful tone, to make his intentions clear,  “Is that so?”

“Yes, if you believe it.”  Faramir smiled, glancing downward, then laughing a little; he was plainly embarrassed with all the attention.  The Steward reached to toy with his full cup, smiling at a servant as it was set before him. 

Éomer smiled widely then hid it as he jested in a dour tone, frowning.  “You need only to look at me to prove the skill of his witchery.”  They did, confused.  At once, knowing he had their attention, he pretended to scowl.  “He has charmed me…I can speak nothing but praises.”  Éomer stared at the Steward for a long beat, then deadpanned to their little group.  “It is torture.”

They laughed at him and he felt a flush of warmth, of pride in himself.  I have passed…something, he knew not what, a great difficulty…Éomer smiled, at peace, if only for the moment.

***

It was, he thought, possibly one of the best days of his life.  Faramir laughed, reaching for his cup of wine, and pointing across the table, “Do not think you’re distracting me.”  The game was well underway and the victor was still undecided, their competition growing fierce.

“With what?”  Éowyn sounded innocent, but he felt her foot, slipped from its boot, touch his leg again—how she’d managed to unlace her boots undetected, he had no idea.  Faramir smiled.  Talent, no doubt.  Her toes wiggled against his calf, nudging him, trying to provoke him.  The curve of her insole nuzzled, then squeezed to his ankle, tickling and even arousing him just a bit.  It was certainly a new type of contact. 

Gazing at her fair face, Faramir noted the way her eyes were focused elsewhere, focused with her task.  Éowyn blinked at him, smiling at once, her darkened hair slipping into her pale eyes.  He smiled, waiting until she’d slid upwards into range of his hand.  Her toes pinched his thigh and he jumped, looking at her in surprise.  Éowyn giggled, her expression mischievously, youthfully, girlishly attractive, cheeks flushed with her efforts and biting her lip, smiling until he spoke. 

“Do you know how wicked your sister is?  Trying to distract me with this,” Faramir reached down and grasped her ankle in a firm hand.  Éowyn yelped, slithering down in her seat.  Her hands clutched desperately at the table, pulling the cloth that covered it forward until she got her bearings, then they disappeared to hold onto her chair for balance.   

She gasped indignantly, “Let go of me!”

“No.”  Faramir smiled.  Got you…  He held onto her despite her fitful yanking. 

Éowyn gave him a narrow stare, then pulled again, bouncing in her chair with the effort.  “Let go.”  Her protests disappeared as he stroked his fingers over the arch of her foot, keeping his touch light, feathering, ticklish.  She squirmed, giving bursts of laughter amid more breathless complaints, “Stop…  Let me go!”  Meanwhile, as though nothing important was happening, Éomer was moving one of his pieces again, carefully guarding his King.  Faramir glanced at him, quickly scanning his mind, ascertaining his mood—untroubled.  He does not care…is even amused?  It was with wonder that he stared at the Lord of the Mark.   

Across the table, the Queen moved her piece at once, seeking a chink within the guard, her pieces spread widely in what Faramir admitted was a good defense.  He held onto Éowyn’s ankle and eyed the board, unable to see how Éomer could reach a corner.

Still undisturbed, Éomer nodded, chuckling as he finally agreed.  “She is a beast, my sister.  Not to be trusted.  Used to cheat all the time, just to win.”  He grinned.  “A little orc, is what you are, sister.”  Éowyn stuck her tongue out,

“Call me that again, brother, when I’m not being held in place!”

He jests, she does…Faramir smiled and felt his heart nearly melting in a burst of joy so powerful it hurt.  I am…welcomed.  No longer was he forced on the outside, made to struggle against the hard defense of anger, suspicion, fear…brother and sister both jested with him, treated him as though he’d always been here.  In the wonderful Mark…  He bantered back, just with the slightest of elated shakes in his voice, “Do you want me to let her go?”

Éomer laughed.  “No, hold her, I remember being scratched, kicked or bitten for less.”  He shook his head, “Disgraceful” and Faramir smiled, obediently holding fast.  Éowyn tugged against him with a huff of impatience, but he caught her beaming smile, felt the rush of delight when she looked between them.

It was near enough to make him forget that after another day she would be leaving.  Faramir reminded himself of her intentions—planning my house and our joining, learning what will ease her in being my wife…  She did not run from him again in fear, but went to give him what he desired so that when he rode into his City, he would see her waiting, see everything he’d ever wished for since he’d first found her.  Everything…

But not even this reassurance stopped his fervent wish…if only this day could last forever…

Translations:

Seo lamb wille betst ge, Tondhere, ond eall seo com befer me—This lamb will best you, Tondhere, and all that come before me

Min cempa ealdorlang, min ceas mann, min Feramearh, ge wille ofercom seo—My champion forever, my chosen man, my Soul-Steed, you will overcome them

Wedbroðer—brother in wedding