Éomer eventually noticed the lack of footsteps behind him and turned, feeling his irritation rise.  Halorl had stopped following and was no longer even in sight; he blinked at the vacant corridor, thinking it was an incredible display of waywardness for a man he’d thought of as quite biddable.  The hall was empty save for flickering torches and a few men in the distance—they wore finery and were most definitely not Halorl—and he frowned in consternation.   Where did he go?  He glanced at Aragorn’s retreating back, then the long, straight passageway they were traveling down, calculating.  Éomer sighed.  Even with turning down a side hall, Aragorn could not lose him in the time it took to find and fetch Halorl.

Quickly backtracking to the last corridor that diverged from their passage, he found his aide standing in the center of the hall, doing nothing that he could see.  Halorl jumped guiltily when he came to his side and demanded, “Hwa eart ge dáng?”

“Ic sarie, min Hlaford.”

          “Com, Halorl, nu.”  He decided that he did not care what had distracted the man and had more important things to worry about.   My sister…

            “Gea, min Hlaford.”  The man looked embarrassed for having fallen behind, quickly matching his long strides.   Eager to catch up with the King, Éomer reentered the hall and halted, staring at the empty passageway in mild bewilderment.   Aragorn must have rounded the corner already.  Oh, where did he go?  The King had not noticed his absence.

        He tightened his jaw and walked swiftly down the hall; he was unable to believe Aragorn had gotten so far away in the few seconds they’d spent watching the mysterious figures.   It is impossible, he thought incredulously.  I just wish to find my sister…it was a task that had never been this difficult in Edoras.  “Aragorn!”  Éomer had finally reached the corner.   It branched off into two different directions—left and right.   Expectantly, he looked down both ways and swore in a surprised burst of frustration; both were empty.  He had no idea which way to go and kept looking back and forth, uncertain, unable to remember which direction would take him deeper into the City or closer to the walls.

An anxious minute later, Éomer called out again, trying not to shout in the sleepy silence, “Aragorn!”   He waited, listening as hard as he could, but there was no answer.   At his side, Halorl shifted from one foot to the other, looking contrite, but Éomer paid him no attention. 

Where is he?  He would have to guess.

***

            “Éowyn?”  Faramir glanced down; she’d not spoken or moved in a long while.  “Are you asleep?”  There was no reply.  He closed the book, careful with its fragile, curled pages and set it down by his side, equally careful not to jostle her; it was getting too dark in his room to read with the fire burning down again, the shadows steadily deepening.   Faramir looked down at her head resting on his shoulder and sighed.   With her hand on his stomach, leaning against his body, Éowyn appeared so peaceable, so untroubled, completely at ease.  I wish she could relax…but surely she has learned I won’t hurt her…  He hoped so feverishly, wanting to wake her just to look into her eyes and see if they were soft or wide with nervous fear.  Spending a few seconds admiring the way her golden hair gleamed in the faint light and pushing away the tempting thought of how comfortable he really was, Faramir finally collected himself and jiggled his shoulder in an attempt to gently prod her.   But all that earned him was a mumbled complaint.   His heart lightened.  Surely she does not fear…

            “Éowyn?  Wake up.”  He tried for stern and just barely managed.   It was hard to be demanding while smiling with budding joy.  “Wake up, my love…dearest…most beautiful of maidens…” Whispering, he brushed a few strands of her hair away from her brow, turning to look down at her more fully.  Éowyn was beautiful even with her light eyes shut; to cover them she had lashes many shades paler than her flaxen hair and fair skin.  The bridge of her nose and her cheekbones were just a little reddened from the sun, her blush-rose lips slightly parted.  He could feel her warmth, her weight against him and the sensation was both foreign and acutely pleasurable.  I don’t want to move…he did not wish to end the mellow, promising moment, afraid of speaking louder and waking her.  Faramir breathed her name, “Éowyn?”

            “Hmm?”  She stirred, one hand stretching across his front to clasp and hug his side, her head burrowing deeper into his shoulder.   Éowyn sighed and murmured, “What?”

            He stroked the back of his fingers over her cheek.  It was so soft, so soft.  Faramir smiled, whispering tenderly to her creased brow, “You fell asleep.”

            “No…” Éowyn shook her head in a tiny motion of dissent.  “Did not.”  She sounded childishly petulant and still half in slumber.  Faramir chuckled and fingered her hair, wrapping a great sheaf of it around his knuckles and watching the fading light of the candles glow off of it.

 Spun gold…gleaming like the Sun off the walls, shining on the Great River…all things rich and beautiful.   He was in no hurry.  But…he sighed and mustered a firmer tone.  “Yes, you did.  Now, come, get up.”  She had to go, no matter what he desired.

            “Wha—” Éowyn opened her eyes.  For a moment she just stared at him, then she inhaled in a sharp little gasp of surprise and sat up, withdrawing her arm and pulling back all at once and so swift that she yanked the furs from his lap.  She looked alarmed, as though she’d thought she was somewhere else or, he thought, studying her, speaking with someone else.   Éowyn scooted further backwards and completely baffled at her jittery reaction, Faramir let her go, removing his arm.  His heart gave a prick of distress.  He’d been right to not wish for the moment to end.

            “What’s wrong?”  He gazed at her searchingly, observing everything he could: the slight difference in her eyes, her tense posture, her hands fidgeting, a dead giveaway for nervousness with her that he’d picked up on; from all these things he tried to determine her state of mind.  Faramir smiled soothingly, “It’s all right, you’re with me.”  Taking a guess, he murmured, “No other, just me.”

“I know.”  Voice faint, Éowyn nodded, but her manner was no longer relaxed and he frowned in perplexity, reaching out to her mind.  Faramir had long been aware of his ability to perceive the thoughts of men, though usually only those from persons in close range or whom he already knew; it was a valuable gift passed down from his father’s line, and he’d often used it to his advantage.  However, to his annoyance Éowyn managed to escape this insight almost entirely.   Able to sense only extremely forceful emotions from her and no thoughts at all, he found himself feeling partially blind even when looking into her face.   Éowyn so utterly blinded him that Faramir had all but given up on ever being able to learn her thoughts.  He was wondering if it were a natural characteristic of the Rohirrim, having noticed a similar, if not as severe effect with Éomer and Halorl when she spoke again, answering his earlier question.  “N-Nothing’s wrong, Faramir.”  She hesitated, licking her lips and slowly pushing the hides away; Éowyn did not meet his eyes as she murmured.  “Just a strange dream.  It startled me.”  She gave him an uncertain smile, “I’m sorry if…” 

“It’s all right, do not worry.”  He touched her hand, feeling how it sat in his without reaction, and frowned again.  Was that a lie?  Something felt off.  He stared at her, unable to tell and disoriented by his inability.  Lies were usually so simple to discern.

She mustered another awkward smile and shifted purposely.  He let her go and she looked away, finishing untangling herself from the furs, pushing them towards him as though to give herself a barrier.  “I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow then?”  Éowyn took a breath and her smile grew a little less uncomfortable, “It’s late, I…have to leave.”

“Yes, yes, all right.”  He smiled at her, pleased by how she’d offered to see him first, equally displeased by her distant behavior.  “I’d like that.”  Smiling in eager hope, seeking to instill the same in her, Faramir held himself in place for a second, concentrating and sensed…nothing but free-floating apprehension.   Why can I not read her?  Frustrated and again ready to admit defeat, he rose to politely accompany her to the door. 

But once there, he laid his hand against the worn wood then pressed it flat, turning to face her and intentionally blocking the way.  “When?”  Faramir watched her eyes dart to his hand and felt his joy begin to fade.  His voice reflected it, lowering, becoming more melancholy.  What is wrong, my love?  What, what…what can I do?  He wondered if she were perturbed because she’d awoken next to him or if it had really been a strange dream and waited patiently for an answer while she licked her lips and crossed and uncrossed her arms. 

            “When?”  Repeating him with a frown, Éowyn still avoided looking directly into his eyes.  He smiled reassuringly, wishing he could sense anything at all from her, besides vague anxiety, that might help. 

I want to help…why won’t you let me?  “I was wondering when will I be able to see you tomorrow.”  Faramir explained himself with another wide, patient smile.  He hoped to spend most of the day with her.  A week he said…it seemed a terribly short amount of time with all his duties taking most of the days.  And how long will she be in Rohan?  He frowned.  How long will I?

“Oh.  I don’t know.  Um…” Éowyn touched her hair nervously.  Growing more frustrated by the second, Faramir was about to ask her what was wrong again when a knock at the door that he leaned against startled them both. 

“Faramir!”  The voice was familiar, that of his Lord.  Odd, usually it inspired confidence, obedience, optimism, but at the moment it did not; Faramir could read Elessar’s emotions, though he usually didn’t out of respect, and now he frowned, staring blindly at the door’s frame even as he moved to open it.  The King’s mind was uncharacteristically anxious.   “Faramir.”  When he called again, he sounded slightly out of breath and unusually harried, immediately pounding at the reinforced wood. 

The mystery faded when Éowyn shifted and he became mindful of her again.  Faramir cursed inwardly, well aware that his chances at getting an answer from Éowyn would probably disappear as soon as she did.  Turning, he asked quietly, hearing his own pleading, “Stay a moment?”  She nodded with an obvious reluctance that made his heart ache.

Please…what can I do?  He could do nothing unless she allowed it, which will not happen until she trusts me, but she can’t trust if she is still hurt…it seemed a baffling, frustrating circle and he could see no way out.  His heart firmed as he glanced to her, seeing her hurt in her uncertain stance, how she hid behind a sheaf of her hair.  There must be a way!

          Opening the door was a task made easier by Aragorn rudely pushing inside.   Faramir stepped back, astonished; if his Lord’s mind was usually composed, this brusqueness from the ever diplomatic and courtly Elessar was beyond strange, near incomprehensible.    “Faramir…” Aragorn fell silent, staring at Éowyn.   She blinked, quickly looking away in discomfort at his scrutiny. 

“Yes?”  Faramir kept his voice calm with long practice, but he was not able to entirely smooth over his annoyance and rising perturbation.  It showed and his question held an edge.  “Do you wish something of me, my Lord?”  All confusion about his master’s behavior aside, he didn’t like the way Aragorn was staring at her; it was as though she wasn’t supposed to be here, as though they were doing something wrong.  She is my betrothed!  Not some harlot! 

“Ah…” The King looked to be at a loss while gazing at Éowyn.  Suddenly he came back to himself, turning to ask evenly, “Could I speak to you in private, Faramir?”

What for?  It is the middle of the night, can it not wait?  Controlling his irritation, Faramir politely offered.   “Do you wish to go into the hall?”  The last thing he wanted was to give Éowyn a chance to get away.   After all the time he’d spent this night just getting her to relax, Faramir didn’t want to start from scratch tomorrow.  He glanced at her, worried at how withdrawn she seemed already.  What did I do wrong?  He’d done nothing and knew it, which only frustrated him more.  

“No!”  Aragorn swiftly composed himself, taking a deep breath.  “No…perhaps…” He trailed off pointedly, turning his eyes to Éowyn.  Faramir ground his teeth in irritation. 

“Oh, oh, of course.”  Éowyn started.  “Of course, Aragorn.  I apologize.”  She smiled unconvincingly, smoothing her skirts as she took a step towards the door.  “Faramir…” She nodded at him, her voice already taking on the tones of farewell.

“Don’t.”  Faramir extended a hand, stepping forward quickly to stop her.  It came out sharper than he’d intended, so he asked again, more softly, “Please, give us a moment.”

“I need to speak to you in private.”  Aragorn stressed, glancing back at the still open door.   Éowyn looked back and forth between them, confused and twisting her hands.

And I don’t care.  Full of rare rebellion, Faramir glared at Aragorn, who did not speak again, but returned his glance with equal determination.  After several seconds of tense silence he said as neutrally and in a servile a tone as possible when he was so exasperated, “My Lord, I beg you, tell me what you want, you may speak in front of her.”  Or leave, Faramir added mentally.  He couldn’t imagine what it was that Aragorn would tell him that required Éowyn to go.

“I want an explanation.”  Éomer’s deep voice startled them all as he appeared in the doorway.   Aragorn grimaced and sighed deeply in defeat, his shoulders slumping; he rubbed his neck and frowned at the Lord of the Mark.   Éowyn gazed skeptically at her brother. 

They stood in uncomfortable silence until Faramir broke it again, tense and growing more vexed by the moment.  I do not have the patience for this man…his patience was not an endless well and Éowyn took much of it.  His tone was too harsh, even to his own silent recognition, challenging, “An explanation?  Tell me, what for?”

Éomer’s stared at him as though honestly surprised, then his eyes narrowed and he stepped fully into the room.   His voice was thick with sarcasm when he asked, “You can’t guess, Faramir?”

“No, I can’t.”  Éomer’s insolence rankled him; coupled with his frustration over Éowyn’s renewed and erratic hesitation, his temper held by a thread.  Not thinking, Faramir matched his sarcasm.  “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Aragorn interrupted; he was controlled, lending contrast to their tense, snappish words and stiff postures.  “Éomer, I want you to step back into the hall and speak with me for a moment…” The King paused and allowed with less control, “Then you may reprove Faramir as you like.”  He laid a hand on the Lord of the Mark’s shoulder; it was shook off.

“You remember our agreement, Faramir?”  Éomer was visibly holding back his temper, his voice tightening, his jaw clenched. 

He frowned, suddenly wary and not as confident.  “No…” Faramir searched his mind, but could not recollect anything.

         “You agreed…” Each word was stressed as though he spoke to a child; it only aggravated Faramir more, “That when you see my sister,” Éomer gestured impatiently to Halorl, “You see her with him.”   Faramir frowned, remembering and feeling a stab of unease.  “We had an—”

           “Oh, brother…” Éowyn rolled her eyes irritably, saying, “Éomer, that is so foolish!”

He glanced at her, blanching, looking surprisingly vulnerable, even hurt and losing some of his ire as he protested anxiously.   “No, he agreed!” 

I did.  Faramir winced and took a breath, prepared to apologize, quickly framing it in words of sincerity.  I apologize, Éomer, it slipped my mind…no excuse…

But before he could, Éowyn shook her head at her brother, grimacing, “Éomer, you are being ridiculous!  Faramir is a good, trust-worthy—”

Despite knowing himself to be in the wrong, Faramir felt a brief moment of elation; she was supporting and even defending him.  He smiled at her profile, heart lightening, spirits uplifted with pleasure.  She does love me…he felt himself relax.  Éowyn was simply shy, simply frightened and needed more time to understand that he would not treat her as cruelly as she had been in the past.

“No!”  Interrupting her, Éomer upheld himself, but with less and less enthusiasm, “He agreed!”  He hesitated, “Sister…I will have any speak of…I won’t have your maiden’s honor—”

“My what—oh, you are being—” Scoffing loudly, Éowyn stepped forward and gave her head an impatient shake so that her flaxen hair, which had been lying over her shoulders, fell back.

“No, Éowyn, you are not listening to me!”  He huffed with exasperation, “Please listen—” Already filled with slow defeat, Éomer’s voice cut off in mid-argument.  His eyes widened and he stared at her for a long beat, taking in her appearance.  An instant later it was restored to him and he turned to snarl thickly, voice rising with growing indignation and ferocity, “What have you been doing with my sister?”

Éowyn blinked, turning from her brother to Faramir as well, her lips parted, confusion ruling her face.  “What…?  What is it?”  Reflexively, Aragorn and Faramir had both jerked, looking at her to find the cause of Éomer’s instantaneous fury.  

Now Aragorn groaned softly.  He tried again more sternly and again his hand was thrown off and his words went unheeded.  “Éomer, please, into the hall…” The King’s voice rose in annoyance, “I am not asking you!” 

The Lord of the Mark did not even glance in his direction, riveted, furious, “Answer me!  Now!” 

Looking at Éowyn, Faramir had noticed for the first time the marks he’d left on her neck from his mouth.  They were many, purplish-red, roundish, marks of love, of his passion.  He winced, but then suddenly grew angry himself.   She was his wife to be and not some girl he’d found.   Did he not have a right to her if she did not object?   A rare burst of pure rage flamed in his chest and Faramir’s lips twisted scornfully, his eyes narrowing.  

“What?  What is it?”  Repeating herself, gaze flitting from him to her brother, Éowyn’s eyes were wide, confused and growing frightened, but she was ignored.

         “How…dare, you dare to touch her…so…” Éomer was stammering, nearly incoherent, face reddening. 

        Aragorn’s voice was rising, “Éomer!  Do not forget whose lands you are in!”

        Faramir repeated him slowly, hearing his familiar tones as strange, grown dangerous and cold and oddly familiar.  “How…dare I?”  Éowyn’s eyes were distressed; she looked back and forth between them, twisting her hands.

        Her whisper went unheard, lost in the rising fury that blocked his ears and his wiser side and narrowed his senses to fix solely upon the disrespectful, uncivilized man before him.  “Éomer…please, no, Faramir, no…don’t…”

 “Éomer, listen to me!  Faramir!”  Aragorn stepped forward, speaking clearly, loudly, raising his hands, trying to distract one of them, either of them.   It didn’t work.

            “I did nothing she didn’t want me to.”  Faramir shocked even himself at the way it came from his mouth, unplanned and unchecked; he felt himself flush at the implications, things he’d never inferred so willfully before, if ever. 

But his words had had the intended effect of deeply scoring Éomer’s very heart and honor; the man gasped with a quick indrawn breath, face and cheeks blanching pale only to fill immediately with the reddish flush of rage.  Aragorn looked astonished, open-mouthed; Éowyn was horrified and coloring as she turned sharply away, Halorl’s face turned dark like his Lord’s had.  Faramir was struck just as silent as they, unable to take back his words, unable to find a way to make them right.

In the frozen, absolute quiet that followed, he watched every ounce of reason leave Éomer’s eyes as the Lord of the Mark comprehended just how the remark was meant to be read.  Faramir felt a rush of panic.  Wait…he’d done as he’d always tried not to and spoken without thought.  Wait…he’d meant to hurt the man, wound him for his irritating mannerisms; I meant to say that, but…he’d simply not been quick enough to watch or catch his tongue.  And he’d intuitively struck, with shameful callousness, in Éomer’s greatest point of weakness—his sister and her purity.  Staring into the man’s pale, enraged eyes with part fascination, part unease, he opened his mouth, framing…I did not mean…I meant no such thing…

 He was too slow and Éomer hissed in a threatening undertone that vibrated with the purest of rage and most blistering of convictions.  “No man says that about my sister.”  His jaw clenched and Faramir knew the thick, metallic taste of blood, his mouth blossoming into hot pain as Éomer’s fist rose and slammed into his face with incredible speed and force.   He stumbled back from the force of the blow, but did not fall and an impossibly strong grip fastened onto his collar and threw him, unresisting, against the hard wall.  

Faramir’s skull impacted with an explosion of intense white light, stunning him so that he slid downwards, eyes unfocused, fighting unconsciousness and struggling to stay on his feet.  He…he hit me…he was utterly shocked, blinking at the Lord of the Mark, his vision blurred.  No man of the City would have struck him so coarsely or acted with such violence.  Éomer was a savage.  Then he was jerked upright and Faramir swayed, still stunned and disbelieving that what was happening was truly happening.  He’d never brawled before in his life, never been struck with such disrespect, never fought any Man of the West and had never expected a fight to occur. 

Suddenly he gagged, grabbing at Éomer’s forearm, which held him up by the neck and pinned him to the wall.  But the pressure only increased, crushing him against the cold stone as Éomer snarled through bared teeth, “You will not speak of her in such a way.  You do not deserve to even touch her!”  His eyes were full of a rashness that promised violence.

            “Éomer!”  Aragorn was at their side in an instant, pulling on Éomer’s shoulder, powerfully jerking him two steps back.   Released, Faramir choked with his throat on fire, coughing so much that he was unable to breathe.   Behind them, he could see that Éowyn and Halorl stood wide-eyed, frozen in equal horror and he felt a moment’s deep pity that she should watch such savagery. 

        I did not mean…he had and it shamed him.  He was bred better.  Slumped against the wall, hands on his thighs, all his focus on breathing, Faramir gagged again as Aragorn lost his hold and Éomer’s arm grasped his shoulder, forcing him upright as his fist slammed into his stomach, driving the air he’d so recently gotten in, out of him.  He could feel Éomer drawing back for another blow, but Aragorn was succeeding somewhat, grappling and pulling the cursing Lord of the Mark backwards, and the pain in his throat had receded enough for Faramir to draw a deep breath, clearing his head.   He panted, taking in huge, raw draughts before looking up and seeing the fury in the other man’s eyes.  He hit me…he hit me…of all the uncivilized…his resentment and guilt combined as he slowly straightened, watching Aragorn speak into Éomer’s ear, watching both the man’s anger and his struggles for freedom subside just the least bit.  He’d provoked this fight…but only because he is a boor, a scoundrel who bullies to get his way!  At the thought,Faramir felt a great, cold wave of contempt rise from deep within his heart and goad him forward.

Éomer had been dragged another step back when Faramir swung with all his strength, hitting him square in the face.  He felt an alien thrill at the sensation, the give of flesh and more, and was repelled by himself.  There had been a sickening crunch of bone, but with the adrenaline burning like fire in his veins Faramir was unable to tell whose it was and didn’t care.   His hand ached, knuckles throbbing from the force he’d used.  Bellowing a strangely garbled cry of rage, Éomer grabbed him again.  “Éomer, no!”  Aragorn, furious, yanked at them and was completely unprepared as Éomer turned and struck him as hard as he could.  He staggered backwards, leaving the Lord of the Mark unhindered and Faramir was thrown to the ground with Éomer on top of him. 

            He thrashed as the man’s full weight landed on him, but Éomer was heavier in bone and with armor and pinned him easily to the flagstone.  Striking out blindly with his fists, he connected once, twice—a third time blood splattered over his face, revoltingly hot.  Éomer cried out, his voice oddly muffled and thick and Faramir felt him shift backwards.  He was viciously triumphant, grinning through his bloody teeth, breath coming fast and hot, but Éomer had only moved to pin one of his hands to the floor with his knee.  Faramir didn’t understand, still striking out with his other hand, until Éomer bore down mercilessly, panting in a tone of vindictiveness that transcended all tongues.  “Ge wæmmst me, Ic wæm ge!”

He struggled, the pain becoming terrible, feeling his fingers and palm crying out in agony, tears rising, but a second later Faramir’s fingers snapped under the pressure and he howled in bestial pain, striking Éomer as hard as he could with his other fist.   His strike was true and he managed to twist out from under the Lord of the Mark as Éomer fell back.  His hand afire, he lifted one leg to kick the other man in the throat, seeking to inflict pain in any way possible.  

It was Éomer’s turn to gag and choke, falling still further back to gather himself.  As they crawled to their feet Faramir could hear them in an odd, disjointed way and their sound was terribly foreign—they were blowing like animals, rasping harshly like orcs in the mid of battle.   Éomer faced him and neither’s anger had receded.  Briefly cradling his broken hand, the fingers horribly crooked and wrong, Faramir lunged forward and got in one hard hit before Éomer simply charged him, using his weight to throw him back to the ground where he held the advantage.   The bigger man’s hands wrapped around his throat and Faramir couldn’t breathe. 

I can’t…I can’t…!  Feeling panic begin enfold his mind, he struck out, but missed.  

The pressure increased; the Lord of the Mark’s bloody face was intent, still flushed with fury as he cursed him.  “Swicful swin…unfæle eafora æt—!”  For a moment he thought he would explode, not from the lack of air or the heaving of his empty lungs, but the indignity of being cursed and not even knowing what the man spoke.  Faramir balled his fist and struck hard.  His throat burning like fire, lungs screaming in their vacuum, Faramir swung again and again, connecting with all the force he could muster, his knuckles shining with red blood, the crimson liquid running in tiny rivulets down his forearm; he could taste it, smell it and was revolted.   He could see Aragorn pulling back on Éomer and each time he did the pressure on his throat would cut free and he could take a tiny sip of air, but it wasn’t enough.  His vision began to turn grey.

A voice and the long, thin scrape that steel made as it was drawn cut through his dimming mind, along with a powerful rush of terror that was not his own.   Éowyn…

           “Ætstanda, Éomer!  Nu!”  He couldn’t understand her, but the demand was clear.   Faramir felt the pressure lessen almost imperceptibly. 

           “Now!”  She cried out harshly, firelight gleaming down the length of the sword as it flashed into Faramir’s rapidly decreasing field of vision.  His dulling eyes fixed on it and suddenly Éomer’s hands were gone.   Faramir choked gratefully, at once inhaling, his throat raw and burning.   He coughed, painfully rolling over onto his side, clutching his stomach and dryly retching not air but what felt like invisible fire along his abused gullet. 

          “Do not move.”  Aragorn’s eyes were black with rage and Faramir looked up to see him push Éomer, unresisting, back against the wall.  Looking about the room and seeing only Halorl, his liege lord and the King, Faramir frowned, panting, unable to understand.  He focused and saw the sword was in Aragorn’s hand.  Where is Éowyn?  Disoriented and certain he’d heard her voice, he tried to get up and hissed in pain, jerking back his left hand; he’d forgotten it was broken.  Faramir grimaced, looking at the fingers and feeling slightly sick.  They were twisted at an odd angle, smashed and his whole hand was bloody.  The sight made him nauseous, made his fury vanish, leaving him with cold, queasy shame and fear. 

What…what happened to me?  He was sure he’d never acted with such an incredible level of indignity as he’d just shown.

           Éomer was breathing hard as well, slumped against the wall.   His face was a mask of bright blood that ran down his chin and soaked his collar.  Their eyes met and the Lord of the Mark straightened to come for him once more, but Aragorn shoved him back hard and he did not try again.  Crouched on the floor, Faramir panted, smiling a weak smile of rancor through his efforts to breathe; he’d broken the man’s nose.  Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet.  Once up, Faramir bent over, trying to catch his breath.  He grimaced and coughed, which ignited a fresh wave of fire all the way down his gullet.  His throat hurt terribly and when he spat it was laced with the pink of blood. 

          “Both of you…are acting like children…  I have never seen such idiocy!  You…you are of noble blood!”  Aragorn was enraged enough to be virtually inarticulate.   His face, too, was bloody with one eye already swelling and blackening.   Faramir vaguely remembered he’d gotten struck as well. 

          His throat ached fiercely and when he swallowed it brought tears to his eyes, but he managed to rasp, “Éowyn?  Where…?”  He turned to Halorl.  The man shrugged and gestured to the door.

          “Gán.”

          The word was familiar enough; Faramir cursed and drew Aragorn’s attention.  He was suddenly exhausted, staggering as the King snapped, “Both of you are coming with me to the Houses of Healing and I will hear no excuses.  Now.”  Éomer said nothing, blood dripping from his nose and fingers onto the floor.   Faramir was tempted to argue, but he’d had enough for one night.  He nodded meekly.  “Take this.” Handing the Rohir Éomer’s sword, Aragorn was still speaking in short, clipped bursts of anger.   Faramir looked at the long, broad blade and wondered wearily if Éowyn had really had it or if it had been his King the entire time.   “Come.”  Aragorn’s face was red and as they moved to follow he stopped and faced them, saying coldly, fully meaning it.  “If you decide to fight again, my Lords, I’ll will send him,” He gestured to Halorl, “for the Tower Guards and have you both put in cells for the week without so much as a hunk of bread!  I don’t care who you are, or what your station is!”

            Faramir managed to whisper thinly, painfully, already feeling his gut twist anew with shame for his churlish actions.  “Aye, my Lord.” 

Éomer just nodded, eyes downcast, one hand to his bleeding nose.  They moved around each other, meekly giving each other distance, but the fight had gone out of them.  Faramir’s throat and hand were beginning to throb and swell; his fingers were blackened with bruises in a florid shade of purple and red that made him grimace.  He could see that Éomer’s nose still dripped, and it too was swelling—the sight brought him some petty satisfaction.  Faramir bowed his head.   I should be ashamed… 

Halorl took up the rear as they began to slowly walk to the Houses. 

***

Éowyn ran as fast as she could with feet pounding, side aching, her breath catching in her chest and smothering her; she wasn’t weeping, she couldn’t weep and run so quickly at the same time.  Darting down this passage, then this one, turning randomly, she ran until she couldn’t go any further and when she stopped, clutching the wall and panting, she didn’t know where she was and didn’t care.  Her eyes tightly closed, Éowyn slid to the ground, folding her legs beneath her, her head leaning back against the cold stones.   Sweat trickled down the sides of her face, matting her hair at her temples; she tried to slow her breathing, taking long, deep breaths, her chest heaving.   For a moment she felt peace.

Then the awful image of her brother and Faramir locked together rose in her mind and Éowyn’s eyes snapped open.   She shoved herself to her feet, swaying on shaking legs, prepared to outrun it again but it was no use.  Moaning in the darkness, she leaned her brow to the cool stone and pressed her front to the wall.

          She’d stood while they’d struggled, witness to too many men fighting to do something as foolish as try to step between them.   But, for a moment, while she’d done nothing, frozen with shock, with Faramir’s vulgar words echoing in her ears, hadn’t she desired, hadn’t she urged Éomer to…  Why did he say that?  He made me sound like a… 

Some part of herself objected.  But that was not my Faramir, no, he is gentle… 

Refusing to think or imagine it again, Éowyn struck her fist into the stone, welcoming the flare of pain with an intent to use it, to gain a distraction from her troubles.  It worked all too well, making her gasp from the fiery sting.  Raising her hand, she gazed speculatively at the blood oozing from the fresh scrapes on her knuckles, finding escape in observing the tiny remnants of rasped away skin, the crimson of blood, the black of embedded grit.  Her mind had cleared of its jumble so that she thought only of the biting pain and felt only weary regret for scraping herself, as she would have to deal with it now on top of everything else.  But as she flexed it, wincing, and the pain faded, her thoughts continued inescapably. 

           I had to choose.

 And what had been so horrible was that she hadn’t been able to, at least until she’d known Aragorn wasn’t going to be able to stop them with any words or physical action.   Éomer had been stronger than Faramir, quicker, more experienced and he’d been winning despite her Prince raining blow after punishing blow upon him.   Éowyn pressed her palms against the stone; closing her eyes again as her stomach rolled in nausea with the sound of bones cracking, the sight of their blood on the floor, the twist of their bodies; in an instant it all happened again in her mind and she felt sick.   They’d fought like animals, straining, panting, each seeking to dominate the other and as she’d watched, horror-struck, her brother’s hands had wrapped around Faramir’s throat and squeezed relentlessly.

          It was only then that she’d acted, crossing the room and jerking Gúthwinë from its sheath.   The sword had been terribly heavy, as though it resisted being turned against its master, and when she’d raised it, hadn’t her arms trembled from its weight?  So strange, she’d lifted Gúthwinë many times without the slightest of effort.  Éowyn bit her lip, remembering Éomer’s face when he’d looked up and seen her holding it.   Her voice had cracked as she’d cried,  “Ætstanda, Éomer!  Nu!” “Stop Éomer!  Now!”   

And he’d looked so betrayed it had hurt her heart.  His hands had fallen away, unresisting as Aragorn pushed him back.  The King had taken the sword from her before it fell to the floor and Faramir had not pressed the fight, instead stilling and gasping for air.  His harsh breaths had made her weak, made fear rise so that she thought she would faint as she’d never done.  Yet all the while Éomer’s eyes had never left her, their light depths so like to her own filling with something she’d been unable to identify. 

Éowyn swallowed in the dark, her dry throat clicking painfully as quiet tears moved down her cheeks, a cool wind chilling the trails of moisture and making her break into gooseflesh.  Why had they fought?  It was all so foolish, her brother too protective, Faramir too defensive…herself too weak to stop them.  

She began walking slowly; hugging her sides, head down.   The only sounds in the corridor were the low moans of the wind and the slow thuds of her feet.   It didn’t matter where she went, really, she wasn’t going back to her rooms tonight.  They could easily find her there and Éowyn didn’t think she could stand to see either one of them.      

          “So where will I go?”  She asked it aloud, her voice sounding hoarse and dull with grief in the deserted corridor and then she stopped.   Éowyn knew of only one person in the City whose room she would feel secure falling asleep in tonight or any night.  Lifting her head wearily, she began to attempt to try and discover where she was.   Hopefully, she wasn’t too far from the Houses.

***

        “My Lord, the Master has retired…”

“Wake him, he is needed.”  Aragorn growled his words and it was clear that his temper had not improved during the walk.  The sleepy young man at the Houses took one look at his Lord, bloody and battered with the two Lords accompanying him in even worse shape, and scurried off to fetch the Master of the Houses.  Éomer watched, outwardly impassive, as a good warrior should be.  Inwardly, he was in turmoil, still seething, awash with rage, feeling his anger press against his ribcage, making it hard to breathe.  How dare he…how dare he say such a thing!  Faramir stood on Aragorn’s other side, just as expressionless.   But merely looking at him made Éomer furious again, so he quickly glanced away. 

            It was inexcusable, what Faramir had implied about his sister, and he chafed, struggling to repress his desire to lunge across the petty distance that separated them and finish the beating he’d begun to mete out.  No one says such things about Éowyn and goes unpunished!  Yet, she’d stopped him.  Éomer clenched his hands, feeling his rage and dismay mount again, emotions building to make him tense and confused.  Why…he’d been justified, any court in the Mark would have upheld his actions.  You dishonor my only blood!  His inner voice was a roar, a white-hot flare of his fully awoken temper.  But he held himself still and silent, teeth clenched, spine stiff with tension, trying his best to obey Aragorn’s commands and, more importantly, to obey what he guessed were the wishes of his only blood, his dear Éowyn.  She did not wish me to fight…he snuck a glance at the Steward and fresh hatred surged so that he turned his eyes away for fear of his temper escaping its leash. 

His side felt empty without Gúthwinë, further disturbing him; there was nothing to finger, nothing to fiddle with to ease his anxiety.  He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, wincing with each as the air flowed through his broken nose.   It had stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed painfully and he tried to resist the urge to touch it, knowing that it would only hurt more.

            “My Lords!  What miscreant has done such a thing to you?”  The Master sounded taken aback as he examined Aragorn first, then passed to Faramir, then lastly, Éomer.   They did not answer and, wisely, or perhaps guessing, he did not press them.  He ordered the boy to fetch some clean cloths and warm water then casually probed the crooked, swollen thing that had been Éomer’s nose.   Éomer tried not to make a noise, flinching and was mollified when Faramir hissed through his teeth as the Master held his hand, being just as ungentle as he felt the breaks in the bones.  “We can set these now, but it will be painful.  Perhaps some spirits first, or a tonic of henbane…” He turned to shout to the boy again.

        “No.  Now.”  Aragorn’s tone was flat, a coldly furious command.

Éomer swallowed, his throat still tasting of coppery blood, stomach rolling a bit from queasy anticipation in the pain that he would soon feel.  He tried his best to give no sign of his nerves, shameful cowardice.  Faramir had openly paled and Éomer regarded him with scorn.  You are no warrior…

         “Aye, my Lord Elessar.”  The Master raised an eyebrow and gave them a sympathetic glance.   “Follow me, my Lords.”  They were led deeper into the sleepy Houses by lantern light.  In a large room with candles already lit, weary-faced aides piled clean cloths and stoked a small hearth into life; left alone for the moment all three stood uncomfortably while the water gradually heated. 

        Shadows danced while Aragorn spoke, his voice firm and still cold with anger, “I do not expect another night like to this one.”  He looked to the Steward, then Éomer, who said nothing, but Faramir nodded tiredly and rasped,

“Aye, my Lord.”  Then his face tightened and he added, as though he could not hold his tongue, “If Master Éomer can learn to practice less rudeness.”  When he turned, his stiff tone had become openly contemptuous, “I doubt it will be an easy lesson.”

        His temper roared, making him grow rigid and spit angrily, “If you possessed more control we would not be here, I find you breaking your oath with my sister and you have her marked like a har—”

        Interrupting, Faramir’s grey eyes had narrowed to slits like to a wolf ready to spring.  “It would not be wise to finish your words.”

        Aragorn’s bellow shocked them into silence.  “Neither of you are wise!”  Quieting, the King looked between them, anger clear in his face.  “And the both of you will practice more courtesy when in each other’s presence or neither of you will be allowed to remain within this City, is that understood?”  He sounded exasperated, “Have you not had enough of war?”  Neither replied and Aragorn said firmly, answering his own question, “I have and I will tolerate no more within the boundaries of my lands.”

        The Steward nodded slowly, shamefacedly.  “Aye, King Elessar.”

        Aragorn stared at him and Éomer reluctantly agreed.  His voice was muffled, thick and nasal; it hardly sounded like his own.  “I understand.”

The Master returned and they fell silent.  “Ah…” He looked pleased to see the water steaming and dipped the cloth in the basin, pinkening it, and using it to first swab away the minimal blood on Aragorn, then more from Faramir and lastly Éomer.  The cloth was red as well as the water in the basin by the time the Master finished.

Large-boned men came to hold him and Éomer stood his ground, silent, outwardly stoical.  His teeth gritted and he clamped his jaw as they grasped his arms firmly.  Nearby, the Steward looked away; the King watched.  I will not…the pain of it was horrible, if brief, and he bellowed in agony as they set the break, the bones of his nose clicking into place.  Éomer jerked, tasting blood, breathing through his mouth in harsh gasps as the men who’d held him stepped quickly back. 

It hurts, oh, it hurts!  He groaned in wonderment, the vibration making it hurt more.  Tears streamed down his face, mixing with fresh blood as the Master clucked.  He was muttering to himself, but he looked pleased as he wiped the mess away with another cloth, eyeing it. 

“There.”  He sounded even more satisfied as he fixed the bandage.   “It will heal nicely, my Lord.”  Éomer, released, stumbled backward, trying with all his might not to put his hand to his face.  Panting, eyes still watering, he was gratified to see Faramir looking slightly queasy.  Aragorn stood in the corner, bruised features inflexibly stern, his arms folded across his chest; he’d barely needed aid; he’d used the steam of athelas, not allowing them the same and the blackening of his eye had already receded considerably.   “Now, my Prince.”  The Master dried his hands on a towel and looked up expectantly.  “I am saddened to think that I had just thought you well…and even the very same arm, my Lord.” 

Faramir hissed and though the two burly men held him, the muscles of his forearm still jerked and trembled while his fingers were set and splinted, the Master washing away blood that turned the freshened water in the basin pink, then red again.  Éomer watched, thinking that most of it was probably his.  The pale Steward turned away and their gazes met momentarily; the cold anger within Faramir’s grey eyes made his own anger spark. 

        Éomer snarled silently.  You should not have spoken!  The Prince, of course, did not respond, eventually looking away and giving a last, faint gasp of pain as his palm was wrapped in white cloth.  He held his hand outward, looking at it, his expression appalled.  Éomer felt satisfaction and restrained a smile.  You ruin me, I ruin you!

        The Master asked smartly, “Anything more before I return to my bed, Lord Elessar?”

        Aragorn gave them both a long glance before shaking his head.  “No.”  They left the Houses, retracing their steps to the street.  Standing on the cobblestones, Éomer turned to look back into the Houses, debating on whether his sister would be within or hiding somewhere else and the King spoke again.  “You will return to your rooms and stay there, that is a command.”

        Faramir, who seemed astonishingly obedient to every little word that came from Aragorn’s mouth, nodded and replied at once, if wearily, “Aye.”

        Éomer spared him a disgusted look, then nodded as well, all the while having no intentions of submission.  He needed to find his sister, but if it took a longer walk to pacify Aragorn, he would do so.  He smiled faintly and trailed the Steward and the King.  It might give her time to remember forgiveness…

***

         “Merry?”  Éowyn tapped at the door.   It was late and she wondered if he would even wake.   “Merry?”  Please, she added inwardly, sure that before the night was over either Faramir or Éomer would come to her rooms.   My brother will, I know it…

         “Éowyn?”  The door next to her popped open, startling her so badly that she let out a cry of fear.  Éowyn jumped back, her hand going to her chest, heart pounding as the hobbit stared up at her.   It was Pippin.   “What is it?” Alarm made his voice higher than normal.   She looked down and understood.   There were smears of blood on the front of her white gown. 

          She took a breath and found herself ready to burst into tears.  Éowyn asked, feeling her throat closing, lips quavering, near sobs.  Not even her shame could contain them.  “Can you…wake Merry for me?”

           “Yes, yes.”  He opened the door and came into the hall, still frowning, small face filling with concern.

          “I’m all right.”  She said it to reassure him only.  Éowyn was not entirely certain that she was all right.   I…I don’t want to think of them…  She thought she might weep if she did.

          Pippin’s voice was unusually soft, “Why are you…all bloody then?”

          “I…I hurt my hand.”  She showed it to him; the blood had already dried to a dark, thin crust over her knuckles.   “Please…Merry?”  The Took was a fine hobbit who’d never been anything but kind and friendly, but she knew and trusted his elder cousin far better.

          “He’s gone to bed.”  Pippin took her hand to frown over it.  Then he peered up at her and his face was much more cheerful.   “Come, we’ll wake him.   You need to wash this and he’s stolen my washbasin, the ruffian.”  He was trying to cheer her.  Éowyn managed a smile, surprising herself as she obediently followed the halfling.  He padded next door.  His small hand was holding hers all the way and it comforted her more than she would have guessed.  She jumped when he raised a little fist and pounded hard on the wood.  “Merry!  Wake up!”  There was a muffled groan from inside and she felt sympathy.

          “Pip…” The door cracked to reveal the yawning, bleary-eyed hobbit in a nightgown, leaning against the doorjamb.   He blinked and straightened when he saw her.

          “Éowyn, what’s wrong?”  He frowned up, his Brandybuck accent thickened with sleep and concern.  

Pippin pushed by his older cousin and led her into the room while Merry shut the door.  “I don’t know.”  He answered for her, which made her smile weakly again, and then further explained.  “But she wants to stay with you.”

          Éowyn nodded when they both looked at her.   She was suddenly exhausted and just thinking of an explanation made her want to collapse, curl into a ball and sob.  Why…why must they fight?  The image of Faramir’s normally serene, kindly face, the face from which his soft kisses and enchanting words emerged, twisted into an expression of rage haunted her—he was so gentle, where had that come from and would it ever turn on her?  She shuddered, ashamed to have even thought it.  No, never…but she did not know him very well. 

         Merry nodded with surprising capableness.  “These great beds are big enough for two…” His expression turned shy, “If you don’t mind.”  Merry frowned, and added, “I could sleep with my cousin, if you wish…”

        Éowyn smiled again, this time less shakily.  “No, I don’t mind.”  She didn’t think she could hold back her sobs if she were alone.  Feeling warmth for the kindhearted hobbit, she smiled, “I’ll not turn you out of your bed, Merry.”

        And it was good she didn’t mind as Pippin immediately announced.  “Three.”  Then he lifted her hand for Merry to inspect.   “After we wash this.”

           “What did you do?”  He frowned over her scrapes as though they were terrible wounds instead of fairly superficial nicks.

           “Can I tell you another time?”  She was so tired.  The hobbits exchanged looks and Merry answered softly.

           “Of course.”  

They’d washed her hand and fussed over her, binding the scrapes with a bit of cloth, but true to their word, neither hobbit had asked one question.   Éowyn found this extremely heartening as she sat slumped on the bed, waiting.   Neither hobbit was allowing her to lift a finger—Pippin carried in pillows from his bed to add to Merry’s and offered to fetch her something to sleep in, but she refused; Éowyn didn’t think she could stay awake that long.  In the end she decided to simply take off her outer dress and stockings, leaving her shift to sleep in.  She fingered the light linen through her skirts—it was as good as a nightgown, anyway.

Done stripping out of her dress, Éowyn yawned and watched the younger hobbit pull back the blankets.  He was wearing a shirt that looked like it would probably have fit a man quite well.   She smiled, for on Pippin the shirt fell to his knees.  She glanced at the darkness outside the window.  It is late…

Pippin looked at Merry.  Merry glanced at her and his awkwardness was charming, reassuring.  They crawled into the bed then, with Éowyn somehow ending up between the two hobbits.   She lay on her side and closed her eyes, feeling her body relaxing with profound relief…and Pippin wiggled, kicking at the sheets.   Éowyn squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to sleep, but the younger hobbit lying behind her kept squirming.  In front of her, Merry was motionless, breathing slowly and she thought enviously that he was already asleep.  She tried to follow suit, but the Took kept fidgeting.

“Pippin, lie still!”  She hissed a reprimand, turning her head slightly, trying to be as quiet as possible.  

“I can’t sleep.”  Suddenly he pressed up against her back, wiggling right against her.   Éowyn jumped at the contact and tried to move away without bumping into Merry; there was little room to succeed.   Pippin gave an exasperated sigh and whispered in her ear.  “You don’t share your bed much, do you?”

Éowyn turned to glare at him in the dimness, but the insinuative tone of the question seemed to escape the hobbit entirely.  “What?”

“You are very stiff.”  He explained by wiggling closer; she felt her back become rigid. 

Immediately she was exasperated at herself.  Oh, what?  It’s just Pippin…the Took was hardly a threat.  Éowyn couldn’t help but flinch away at the contact, her voice becoming constrained.  Short of stature or not, he was an adult within his lands and she knew that, replying tensely.  “No, I don’t.”

“You should.”  And he snuggled up to her again, small face nuzzling her shoulder.  “It’s nice.   Warm.”

“It’s not proper and I’ve no desire or women to share with.”  Éowyn just wanted sleep, even if it was crowded by hobbits.   If I cannot sleep with an inoffensive hobbit acting so familiarly, how will I with Faramir…and when he desires my body?  She bit her lip, feeling her eyes burn with silent tears, knowing her fear.  How…I cannot…but…she must.  Éowyn could not fathom her marriage bed and the very thought made her tense, made her guts cold and made her clasp her hands in nervousness.  Then she squealed and Merry started awake as she jerked and writhed involuntarily, accidentally squishing him a bit.  “Pippin!”

“What?”  He sounded guilty.

Despite being grateful for a break in her thoughts, she questioned irritably, “How can your feet be so cold with all that hair?”

“Sorry.”  He moved his feet away from her thighs; it had not just been the coolness of his tough soles that had made her jump; Éowyn reassured herself with the knowledge that he could not reach lower on her leg and had meant nothing by the contact.  He’d certainly not touched with any sort of hint of a caress.  “Now I’m too cold to sleep.”  The Took whined piteously when there was no reply.  “I can’t sleep.”  Éowyn rolled her eyes, gritting her teeth, determined to ignore him.

“I was asleep.”  Merry groaned, moving from under her arm.  Then, to her surprise he folded it over himself and snuggled back against her stomach.   Éowyn fidgeted, twitching her toes, feeling confined. 

After a moment she asked, unable to keep silent.  “Do you always sleep like this?”

“Like what?”  Merry sounded curious and reassuringly innocent.

“All…” On top of me! “Huddled up.”

“We did when we were traveling…” For a moment the Took had sounded terribly soft and sad, then his voice lightened, repeating himself, “It’s warm and it’s nice.”  Pippin’s little chuckle reassured her further.  “Don’t worry, Lady Éowyn, you’re an honorary hobbit now.”

 Éowyn laughed, touched and deeply reassured by their plain innocence.  “Thank you.”  There was silence for a while.  She soon fell asleep, but it seemed Éowyn had just closed her eyes when small hands were shaking her awake.  It was Pippin, of course. 

“Wake up!  Wake up, it’s late!”  He moved and cried, “Merry, we’ll miss first breakfast!”

“What?”  She opened her dry, burning eyes and groaned.  He was peering down at her, his head topped with a ruff of dark curls that whirled this way and that, just as unruly as his grin.  Éowyn smiled weakly, murmuring, “Hwa dest ge willst, ge lytle scréawa?  Is hit se hwicung, Ic heah?”  He stopped shaking his cousin, surprised; Pippin’s face screwed up as he began trying to figure out what she’d called him.

“What did you say?”  She smiled again and Merry groaned into his pillow.  “Come!  Merry, we’ll miss breakfast!”

The elder hobbit groaned again as she sat up, blinking blearily.  Completely unable to comprehend how anyone could be so energetic in the morning, Éowyn stared at the grinning younger hobbit.  Pippin was already fully dressed.  She sighed, throwing off the blankets and standing, self-consciously smoothing her thin shift.  Would one of them, Faramir or Éomer, be waiting in her rooms to catch her?  Éowyn felt like weeping; she didn’t want to avoid them, didn’t want to feel trapped and like she needed shelter.  I’ve felt like this too long…she bit her lips, compressing them tightly and closing her eyes to fend off tears.  Her anger rose, remembering.  Curse you brother!  She leaned against the bed, only looking at her neatly folded gown and stockings. 

But if Faramir had not spoken…I can manage my brother, she shouted it to herself, to her absent Prince.  He should not have provoked Éomer…but her brother had provoked Faramir the moment he’d met him.  There was no excuse for their behavior and she only hoped Aragorn had dealt with them harshly.  I cannot stand another fight…

“Really, that late?”  Merry blinked in astonishment, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, running his hands through his curly hair.  It was not quite as dark as the Took’s, more to the color of her own folks’.

“Aye.”  Pippin nodded rapidly. 

Éowyn watched in sleepy bemusement as his messy ringlets bounced.   He needs a comb.  She was even more amused when Merry hopped out of the bed.  Éowyn put her hand to her mouth, muffling her tired giggles.

“What?”  Merry looked down at himself.  “What is it?”

“Your feet.”  She laughed out loud, pointing.   All the curly hair on his big feet stood on end, riotous and tangled into wooly mats.  She smiled, thinking that the tops of his feet looked like a broom made of cattails.  There were even a few bits of fuzz stuck on them.   

“What?”  He frowned.  “I don’t have a proper brush.”  Reaching down, he finger-combed the hair into something closer to neatness.  Éowyn giggled helplessly, silly from lack of sleep, from emotional overload.  Finally crossing to where she’d left her clothes, she slipped her stockings on, one at a time, slowly and tiredly, delaying.  Her gown required a little more effort to wiggle into; she found it irritably uncomfortable and complicated in comparison to the simple dresses of her lands that rarely had laces or ribbons or anything to tie or pull.

“Will you come and eat with us?”  Pippin looked at her in hope.

“No, I’m sorry, I have duties today.”  Éowyn felt her spirits lift immediately.  She was helping some of the older Healers, learning at their side.  But first…she had to fetch a clean gown.  My rooms…would one of them, brother or love, be there?  Her buoyed heart fell again.  “Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

The hobbits smiled and bowed as one; Merry answered with a broad smile, “You are welcome, Lady Éowyn.”

She was dressed and ready, picking at the reddish-brown smears of blood on the front of her gown.  “Enjoy your breakfasts.”

“We shall, that is if Sam has left us any!”  Pippin grinned at her and she smiled in reply, leaving them to walk to her own rooms within the sleepy Houses, one stride at a time, each soft thud of her shoes making her gut grow colder with dread.  Please…please be empty…  She placed her hand on her door; it was cracked, her eastern window letting a thin sliver of morning light stream into the otherwise dim hall and she could hear the low, irregular noise of snoring within.  Her brother had come and stayed.

No, no…  Éowyn moaned, leaning her brow against the wall for a moment, gathering herself.  At least it was her brother, him she could deal with; Faramir she could not, Faramir she had no idea of what to say to, if she would be allowed to speak…he’d not raged at her before for her brother’s rudeness, now, surely, he would.  But…she’d misjudged her paramour before, perhaps…it was his fault as well!  Éowyn felt a protective surge within her heart as she pushed open the door and her gaze fell upon her brother, his face discolored with dark bruises, nose bandaged, knuckles swollen and scraped.  My brother…she sighed.  He was terribly overbearing at times, often overreacting to any threat, but it was his nature, in his blood.  My only brother now, my only…her face softened and she looked down at him with more pity than anger.

His breath had caught with a snort when she entered, her thin-soled shoes making a soft pattering.  Éomer jerked and nearly fell from the chair he’d been sitting in, gasping thickly through the bandages over his nose.  Éowyn felt still more sympathy at the obvious pain and discomfort he bore and stared at him, hoping he would be done swiftly with whatever it was he wanted.  Please, say little to me…when he looked at her it was with deep shame and she waited, feeling her anger merge with her pity, not knowing which to express first. 

He spoke and her anger won.  “I’m sorry.”

***

         Faramir opened his eyes to blue sky broken by the shifting green-browns of leaves and branches.  For a moment he was confused; then, sitting up so fast his head spun, he realized he was in the dream again.   Rising to his feet, Faramir glanced curiously at the tree.  It didn’t seem as large this time.  But, as he turned his attention to outward, he saw the otherwise, it was all the same: the ladybug crawling on his arm, the great, open courtyard carpeted with brilliant flowers, the low stone walls with the defenseless building rising behind him and, coming closer, the beat of hooves.  A formidable breeze blew his hair, rocking his body and Faramir gently brushed the bug off of his arm just like before and smiled.  That done, he then turned in a slow circle, admiring the gardens and looking for the woman.  For Éowyn… he gazed at trimmed hedges, small pools with glittery fish, flowers of endless color, shape, size.  Disappointed, he saw that he was alone. 

             Remembering the children, Faramir walked to the same arched opening in the wall he’d gone through before, marveling anew at the vision’s detail as the coolness of the shadows contrasted with the heat on his shoulders as he emerged under bright sun that shone over the grassy hills.   But, as his eyes passed back and forth over the bobbing flowers, eagerly searching for them, he frowned.  The two boys and the little girl were nowhere in sight.

            “Where are they?” Faramir asked it of himself as he gazed at the far-off Minas Tirith.  He wasn’t expecting any answers so he jumped when she spoke behind him, her hands coming to rest on the tops of his shoulders.

            “Again, Faramir?  Have you nothing else to do?”

           “Éowyn?” He spun to face her, delighted and confused.

          “Who did you expect?” She laughed, ignoring his question, and twined her arms around his neck, her body not quite pressing into his.  “Do you know why the Horseman stands alone in the sky?”

          “No.”  Faramir had no idea what she was speaking of and was barely listening, too amazed.  Instead of being uneasy or tensing at his touch, she’d touched him first and quite willingly.   He gazed in her in wonder; her eyes were calm and trusting.  She arched an eyebrow playfully, as he stared down at her, her lips curving in a smile. Hesitantly, Faramir wrapped his arms around her waist, noticing her hair fell in a long, thick braid down her back; he liked it, it was different from the loose way she usually wore it.  He touched the braid, wrapping the smooth golden rope around his fingers.

           Suddenly remembering his injury, Faramir frowned, flexing his left hand.  Odd, he felt no pain; he wiggled his fingers, but there were only the slightest of twinges when he moved them.  Then his eyes went wide as she shifted closer and he forgot all about his mysteriously healed broken bones. Faramir’s hands left her hair and moved to her stomach, fingers hesitantly tracing the gentle curve of it.  She smiled into his wondering eyes. 

           “Then you had better learn.” Éowyn laughed again as she finally answered, pulling his face down to hers.  Right before their lips met in a kiss, she whispered, “I told you, we have our own tales.”

             “Will you tell me them?”  He was slightly breathless when she pulled away.  Faramir placed his palm flat on her rounded stomach, barely able to contemplate the thought of her carrying his child.  His child.  Delighted and overwhelmed by it, he kissed her again before Éowyn could answer his question.  She responded easily, pulling him closer.  Then she even, to his happy astonishment, encouraged him; her hands tightened around his neck, pulling him down.   Faramir was only too pleased to obey.    

            “No.” She shook her head when he finally thought to pull away and let her speak.  Her face became sad as he only gazed down, puzzled.

            “Tell me, please, I beg you.” He meant it.  Faramir desperately wanted this to be his future. 

            “Ná, min deore, Ic ná cann.  Ge hæfð gefricgan hit ac eowerself.” She murmured sorrowfully, stroking his face.    

         And before he could ask what that could possibly mean, or even kiss her again as he wished to, Faramir awoke, his eyes opening to the familiar clutter of his bedroom.  His broken fingers throbbed as he moved, accidentally brushing them against his side and he winced, holding up his hand.   Glaring at the wooden splints fastened tightly to his three fractured fingers and over his palm, the wrappings of which were spotted with brown blood from multiple, raw scrapes, he hoped Éomer was in just as much pain.   Perhaps that was a petty wish and beneath him, but at the moment Faramir did not care.  His shame had not faded, yet his anger had grown to match it. 

          He eyed the thin rays of light poking around the shuttered window and tried to gauge the time.   It, he thought tiredly, must be late morning.  Wide-awake now, Faramir stared at his ceiling and groaned in frustration, which, of course, made his abused throat come alive to ache and throb.  

          He sat up, eyes going back to the shutters fastened over his window.   With an effort, Faramir swung his legs over the bed and stood, tired and aching all over.  Careful to hold his splinted fingers away from his body, he walked to the window.  Muttering curses as he clumsily unlatched the shutters with his one good hand, Faramir flung them open and gazed out over Pelennor.  Even after years, the miles-long view dazzled him and lifted his spirits.  From his height he could see the great efforts that had been made to clear and cleanse the fields before the City.  Faramir let his eye wander over the mounds under which lay all the fallen; the darker, barren mound of the foul winged beast Éowyn had so bravely slain; the plowings of the few cleansed fields; the first faint green of crops against the brown soil; tiny moving figures; carts with ponies, oxen…

        Éowyn…he leaned against his window, suddenly without strength, his shame returning to overwhelm him.  What shall I say to her?

***

        Gasping, his eyes flying open, Éomer’s heart had been racing as the chair’s front legs thumped to the floor and nearly spilled him out of it; he’d panted through the bandages, focusing on catching his breath, trying to ignore his sister who stood before him in such cool silence.   He’d been dreaming of a curious and upsetting battle where he was fighting in a land he didn’t recognize, against a people he knew nothing about, and even though they did not resist, he couldn’t win.  Looking up nervously, he’d felt her anger though she’d not said anything and apologized, hastily, eager to placate her.  But she’d not responded.

Suddenly, he looked up at her face again, anxious; she moved as their eyes met, striding past him with slow, spiritless steps.  “You’re sorry.”  She spoke flatly, anger and sadness combined to make her voice strained and rough.  “Yes, I know.   You’re forgiven.”   Éowyn turned away, her back stiffly erect, her posture frostily rebuffing him. 

            He’d expected to have to grovel and had little reply.  Éomer stared at her flaxen mane, unable to see her face.  With careful hesitation, his guilt prodding him, he objected, “Éowyn… sweostor, linð…”

            “Hwa, Éomer?”  It was pitiless.  Éowyn turned her head to the side, hair falling across her face, still hiding her from him even as she partially faced his direction.   He strained to see her eyes, feeling a jolt of eager hope as her voice became less harsh.   She said softly, sadly, “Ic synd líhtan it ac ge…”

            “Léase.”  Éomer interjected quickly, his guilt choking him.   He switched to the Common Tongue and stepped forward to grasp her elbow.  “Needlessly, sister.  Please.”  He wanted punishment, wanted to be shouted at, perhaps even slapped, wanted some action that would ease his guilt.  This was terribly unlike her to forgive and forget transgression so easily.  She still wasn’t looking at him.   He frowned at her, asking with his voice puzzled, “Why should you?”

            “Oh…” She sighed deeply.   Éomer waited, partially in hope, partially in dread.  “Because…” Éowyn trailed off sadly, then without warning, she exploded, glaring up at him and jerking back from his hand, “No!  Why must you make everything difficult?  You are forgiven, now leave me be!”

            Éomer, exasperated and somewhat relieved in her display of emotion, snapped right back, “I don’t want it to be easy!”

            “Why not?”  She sounded truly beaten and sad, startling him out of his wounded, righteous ire.

            “I acted inexcusably…” Éomer began slowly, determined to carry on. 

            But Éowyn demanded, her face set in hard lines, cutting him off once more.  “Have you apologized to Faramir?”

         “No…” He flinched in anticipation.

        “Then why are you bothering me for?”  The sentence was virtually a sob, striking him straight in the heart. 

            “Sister, please don’t…” He reached out to her helplessly, knowing himself to be the cause of her pain.   He flinched as she jerked away from him again. 

            There was a tear on her cheek now.   It pained him terribly, sliding down, glistening as she spoke, this time in a whisper, “Why are you bothering me, Éomer?”  Éowyn laughed bitterly, hurting him,  ”You will do what you want, anyway.  You know you should apologize, you wronged Faramir more than I…why are you here?”  Her eyes dropped, and when they rose, reddened, teary, they were furious.  “You know right from wrong, I know you do, and everything you’ve done to him has been wrong!”

        “I’m here for you…”

        “You are here for you!”  She shouted it at him, then fell silent, weeping, hugging herself.  “You don’t care as long as I forgive, don’t care what you do…” Her words broke up, lost in sobs.

            He never knew what to do when she shed tears.   He hated it intensely, and feeling weak and powerless, Éomer said the only thing he could.  “I’m sorry.  Please stop, Éowyn, sister, please.”  He wanted to hug her, to offer comfort against the thing that disturbed her, even if it was himself.   His tongue moved in his dry mouth, and he rasped, “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” She sounded tormented; when she looked at him her anger was clear, her tears ceasing.  Sniffing, wiping her cheeks, Éowyn began jerking clothing from the small chests that lay on the floor, hands moving in abrupt, sharp actions. 

He tried again, “I’m very sorry.”

All at once her hands fell still and she turned to him, saying exasperatedly, “I forgive you, did I not say so?”

“Why?”  Éowyn did not answer.  Guilt filling his heart, Éomer shifted his feet awkwardly, his body cramped and aching from spending all night sleeping in a hard chair.   He raised his hands to rub his face, and then jerked them back as they brushed his nose.  Éomer grimaced painfully as his broken nose began throbbing all over again from the fleeting contact.  His scraped and battered knuckles caught his eye and he smiled, wondering if Faramir was just as sore as he felt this morning.  Walking jerkily around her, he glanced about the small, simple room, stretching.  His back and neck were sore from the odd position he’d fallen asleep in; he rotated his neck, feeling it pop and ache.  Éomer glanced at Éowyn’s profile.  It had been only a hope of catching her, and the immensity of the City that had kept him here all night instead of out searching for her.  He sighed, staring at the made bed, trying to ignore her as she pulled a gown out and lay clean stockings over her wooden chests.  In Edoras there were limited places in which his sister might hide, making the entire process much simpler.  Especially in the last few years, all Éomer had had to do was call one of Théodred’s hounds and command it to find her.  A slight smile twisted his bruised and split lips; Éowyn had not yet found a way to hide from the keen-nosed dogs. 

Then as he stood and waited, he realized she would not speak.  Éomer cleared his throat raspily, saying for a third time, his voice very loud in the stony silence that filled the room.  “I’m sorry.”  As he’d half-expected, there was no response.  He was about to leave and go to his own quarters to change, but Éomer’s guilt rooted his feet.  “Will you not even shout at me again?”  Éowyn did not answer, still ignoring him utterly save to give him a stare and ask coolly, her gown in hand,

“Do you mind…?”

Feeling suddenly very wretched, Éomer turned his back to her, facing the wall, unable to leave just yet.   Their silence mocked him.   Shifting uneasily, he grudgingly admitted to himself that she certainly had every right to be upset with him.  His conscious relentlessly pressing him, Éomer finally sighed in defeat, lifted his eyes to the ceiling and thought, that, perhaps, he’d acted very foolishly.  Thinking also that it would be a very long ride back to Edoras with Éowyn still cross with him, Éomer began wondering how to make it up with her.  “What would earn your forgiveness?”

“You may turn.”  His sister had always been swift.

           He stared at her turned back while she brushed out her long, flaxen mane and felt his tension mount in her silence.  Éowyn not even bothering to shout at him for his behavior was a bad sign indeed.   Running a hand through his tangled hair, he lowered his eyes to the floor, depressed.   Éomer hated it when he angered his sister.  She was the most important person to him and her silence or purposeful attempts to avoid him cut him like nothing else ever did.  From the moment he’d realized, as a scrawny boy all knees and elbows with a vulnerable and wide-eyed Éowyn clinging with both tiny hands to the tail of his shirt, that he was now held responsible for her, Éomer had accepted this great obligation with all his being, becoming a ferociously determined guardian.   But it was a role he was beginning to feel slipping away and, staring at her, he was suddenly frightened.  Éomer gazed at her cold face, her tight jaw; she was still ignoring him in favor of brushing out her hair.  What will I do when Faramir claims her and takes her away for good?

        He had no idea and it scared him, the blankness of his future.  He stared at her, thinking fearfully…I fought him…perhaps he will not honor our agreement, perhaps he will demand her to stay, me to go…  Éomer could not bear even the thought of returning to Edoras without her; his heart thudded in his chest and his breath grew shallow with dismay.  I must apologize…now, before such thoughts cross his mind, if they have not already…  He shifted, rocking back on his heels, trying one last time, “I’m sorry, truly…”

        Éowyn turned, “I asked if you apologized to Faramir…”

Her words were leading, expectant.  He took them up eagerly, seeing a way out of her anger.  “I will…I will go now.”

She was cool, but her icy rage had obviously lessened, “I will be in the Houses today…come by midday and tell me if he’s forgiven you.”

“I will.”  Again he nodded, filled with earnestness, and to his delight, she relented and smiled gently. 

“I forgive you, brother…and why?”  Éowyn sighed, “He provoked you, he said…” She took a breath, “Faramir insulted me, greatly, and to your very face.”  Remembering, Éomer felt his anger rise immediately, black and hot, and it must have shown on his bruised features, for she shook her head violently and declared, “Listen to me, you…” She smiled at him with a particular indulgence, softening anew.  “You are forgiven because of that alone, my brother, my dear brother.”  Éowyn’s smile faded, the lines of her face growing hard again, “Otherwise you acted unforgivably, like a beast, demeaning our line, our people…you are our Lord now, Éomer, this will not be forgotten like some brawl in an inn!” 

He bobbed his head, anxious, “I know.”

“You don’t!”  Éowyn had shouted the last, exasperated, then quieted, “You let your temper rule you, did not listen to reason…you tried to kill the man I…” She glanced away, “I love.  Do you understand my anger and why I have no reason to grant forgiveness?”  He nodded, looking down at the floor, newly ashamed and was surprised when she sighed deeply, then came and kissed his temple, one of the few unbruised places on his face.  Éomer smiled at her, only tentative, afraid her next words would cut.  Éowyn returned it and said softly, “But you are forgiven because you share fault…and you are my brother, whom I love, no matter his foolishness.”  She gestured and ordered, “Now go and bring me good news.”

He nodded and left her then, realizing as he entered the hall that he had no idea at all of where to find the Steward.  Glancing at her closed door, he guessed the man would be looking for Éowyn as well, wishing to make the same amends he did.  Where would she be besides in her rooms? 

***

The hobbits stared up at him, distractedly turning away from their lavish breakfasts when Faramir walked in.  Their eyes widened as one and he flinched a little under the scrutiny, turning to look about in hope.  But Éowyn was not within the room and his disappointment was great; he knew she usually ate breakfast with the halfings.   It was one of the few things she told me…his heart felt low, still filled with shame and remorse over his actions.  Faramir hesitated, giving the hobbits a civil smile and nod.  “Good morning.”  They greeted him in return and he was ready to take his leave, but reconsidered.  Perhaps they knew where she was.  “Have you seen the Lady Éowyn this morning?”

            “No, I’m sorry, Faramir.”  The eldest hobbit spoke, pausing as he sipped from his teacup.

            “No, sir.”  Sam echoed his master when Faramir desperately glanced in his direction.   They looked puzzled and a little annoyed at the interruption in their breakfast, but soon recovered.  Sam handed Frodo a small dish of pastries. “Mmm. These look good, Mr. Frodo.”

            “Oh, they do.  Thank you, Sam.”  Faramir smiled as they peered at the tarts, trying to discover their contents.   His empty stomach rumbling, he eyed them himself, coveting the one that looked like strawberry.   Gently steaming, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, they appeared delicious and Faramir recalled it had been a long time since he’d had a strawberry.

            “What happened to you?”  Pippin finally asked a question of his own.   He glanced with interest at Faramir’s battered face, bruise-blackened throat and broken hand.  

            “Ah, nothing.”  Faramir answered evasively, self-consciously touching his bruised cheekbone; it ached as he spoke.  His answer was ridiculous and their brows raised again.  Uncomfortable, he added, “I beg you, nothing I wish to speak of.”  The hobbits shook their heads and he continued awkwardly, “If you do not know where the Lady Éowyn is, then I will take my leave.”  Faramir bowed in a quick, respectful display, “I wish that you have a fine day in the City.  If there is anything you desire, you may call upon me, my…” He trailed off, noticing the hobbits’ faces as their brows rose in perfectly simultaneous expressions of surprise.   Faramir turned slowly and with dread; he thought he already knew whom it was that would cause such a reaction.  He was displeased to find his guess was correct—it was indeed Éomer. 

Deeply gratified to see that the man looked as battered and pained as he did, Faramir felt himself instinctively tense for a struggle and tried to relax, perturbed by his aggressive reaction to the simple sight of the Lord of the Mark.   Éowyn would only be further unhappy with him if he fought again.   Waiting to see what Éomer would do, Faramir stood deliberately still, his face expressionless, sending the least provoking body language he could. 

***

            Faramir gave him a single glance, his grey eyes distant and cold.  Éomer tried not to react in any way.  Finally succeeding in looking docile, he smirked inwardly at Faramir’s slight expression of unease.  Obviously he’d expected a more heated reaction.  “Good morning.”

            “To you as well.”  The Steward’s voice was just as frigid as his gaze was.  The hobbits’ looked back and forth as they conversed, their eyes wide and curious as they noted the bruises and abrasions on the two men.   Éomer tried to ignore the urge to touch his face.  It would only start hurting again.  Glancing down at the halflings and their meal, Éomer smiled, amused.   He coveted half the table.   It smelled good enough to make his mouth water.  These hobbits breakfasted far better than he did and Éomer was beginning to understand why his sister ate with them.  But the anteroom to the kitchens, long reserved as the hobbit’s private eating quarters, was not especially large and two men and four hobbits filled it quite well.  Feeling distinctly crowded to stand so near to his foe, Éomer took a step back from the table.  He watched Frodo lift a small pastry to his mouth and bite into it with blueberry? Éomer wondered, his stomach growling. 

         The Steward frowned, asking, “Do you think the Lady Éowyn will come…perhaps later today?” 

Directing his question to the hobbits, Faramir’s face was so disappointed Éomer almost felt sorry for him.  Almost.  Then he remembered the reddened marks on his sister’s neck and fresh dislike surged.  You dared…  He cleared his throat and remembered why he’d sought out her suitor.  “She will not.”

The Steward turned to him, slow and cautious.  “You have seen her?”

He answered, keeping his voice calm with an effort.  He hated this man.  “I have.”  But…Éomer sighed.   For his sister’s sake, and only hers, he thought fiercely, he would make a truce.   “Faramir,” It came out as a distinctly uncivilized growl and he tried again, “Faramir, I wish to speak to you.”

            “Yes?”  His tone was frostily polite, which Éomer could not fault him for—he’d earned it.   The Prince of Ithilien gazed at him haughtily, eyes lingering proudly over the busted remains of Éomer’s nose.  He was obviously expecting some sort of outburst, but Éomer’s anger drained and he just felt weary.  

        “Could we have a word in privacy?”

        “If you desire it.”

           In the hall, Faramir simply stared at him.  “I…” He swallowed and closed his eyes, his voice and his pride combining to refuse his commands.   It took the treasured childhood image of Éowyn, smiling gap-toothed up at him, and giggling as led her around on his pony to make him finish the dreaded sentence.  I love you, Éomer she’d cried laughing and tumbled into his arms, trusting he would catch her.   Oh, my sister…  His throat unlocked, but before he could speak, and shocking him with terrible contrast to the earlier memory, his mind presented her as he’d seen her last, sword point held against him, her face stricken with grief and fear.  Tears threatened but he forced them away, composing himself.   It was a vision he never wished to see again.  Éomer opened his eyes.  “I am sorry for…” coward, speak! he growled at himself, “I apologize for acting foolishly and attacking you last night.  It was…unforgivable.”  Faramir gawked at him, caught so completely off guard that Éomer thought it was nearly worth the indignity of apologizing.   Bemused, he smiled inwardly and waited for his response, trying to remain unaware of how tense he was.  

***

Faramir stared, stunned and warily searching Éomer’s eyes for any sign of falseness.   The man seemed sincere; he still stood there patiently, obviously waiting for a reply.  Faramir found himself shifting his feet uncertainly while he framed one and stopped it; he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and trying to order his thoughts into what they most definitely needed to be for his response: sincere, distinct and, most important, carefully courteous. 

However, nothing came to him.  It was only a moment before that he’d been bracing himself for an argument, or even another fight and it was taking Faramir an effort to adjust to this new, unexpected development.   Frowning, his brow creasing, he looked at Éomer again, scrutinizing him closely, but the man showed no signs of the impatience or rudeness he’d half come to expect.  Instead, Éomer seemed rather… almost, well, wretched, he looks wretched.  Suspicious, Faramir wondered why he had apologized.  Perhaps Éowyn had ordered him to make amends.  It seemed most likely.

         The Lord of the Mark was displaying a remarkable degree of tolerance as Faramir took his time.  The apology, he felt, deserved his full attention.  Faramir knew he couldn’t disregard it as a lesser, more spiteful part of him wished to; frankly, he doubted he would get another one, so he not afford to speak or act recklessly.  Gazing back to at the waiting King of Rohan, he reluctantly came to the conclusion that this was a vastly important opportunity to attempt to save the small chance of a friendship growing between them.  Bad feelings between them, he knew, would only strain his and Éowyn’s intimacy.  What intimacy there is… 

Still hesitating, Faramir thought that what disturbed him most was the way Éomer seemed to goad him so easily into thoughtless, irrational actions—he’d had never gotten into a brawl before in his life.

        Several minutes had passed as he deliberated.  Éomer nodded suddenly, a slight, self-mocking smile twisting his lips.  He turned to move away and paused.  “Perhaps it is too much to expect.”  He laughed once, a short, bitter bark that greatly mystified.  “I do not blame you.”

Clearing his throat painfully and feeling the bruises pulse where Éomer’s hands had placed the most pressure, Faramir spoke slowly, carefully keeping his voice neutral.   “Wait.”

         “Yes?”  Was that hope he could see in the Rohir’s pale eyes or something else?  Faramir cast out his mind, searching, but met with nothing more than the strong sense of anxiety and nervous anticipation of his next words.  Éomer, like Éowyn, was virtually impossible to read beyond the mightiest, most prevalent of emotions.   It was terribly frustrating.  

        “I accept your apology.”  He met Éomer’s eyes and dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment for the next part.  This was the hardest to say and yet, for peace, the most necessary, “Thank you, Éomer.”

            “You’re welcome.”  His voice was still uncharacteristically passive.  Faramir wondered at the tone—it sounded forced, yet at the same time, incredibly relieved.   Éomer bowed slightly to him, a gesture of respect that further puzzled Faramir, and completed his turn.  But he only took a few steps before halting.  His back to him, Éomer spoke, “You—” He’d turned his head slightly to the side and Faramir could see the muscles of Éomer’s jaw tense then forcibly relax as he closed his eyes then opened them abruptly, “You are welcome to see Éowyn,” Faramir blinked in surprise.   Éomer took a deep, ragged breath, his voice stretched unnaturally taut and emerging unsteadily from his throat, “…with-without a guard today.”  His eyes met Faramir’s for a moment, almost as though pleading for understanding.  He could grant none, utterly confused.  Another nod and Éomer walked away, his bearing stiff.  It had obviously taken much out of him to say that and Faramir, to his own wonder, felt himself appreciating the effort.   As he watched him go, the man’s unspoken words resonated in his mind, if she permits you to see her. 

            Suddenly he called, “Éomer?”

            At the end of the corridor, the man halted again and slowly turned to face him.   “Yes?”

            “Why?”  Éomer did not reply at first.  Faramir was aware that questioning him was perhaps not the best thing to do, but he was curious.  Logically, Éomer would demand Halorl or another Rohirrim accompany him.  There was not much sense in this new concession, especially after last night, and especially since in the man’s point of view, Faramir smiled slightly, he’d hardly earned any trust.  Or, he privately acknowledged, won the fight.   Puzzled, and as there had been no answer yet, Faramir asked again, “Why, Éomer?”

            “I may not trust you, but,” Éomer finally answered, speaking slowly.  He looked into the distance, his eyes far away and sad before his gaze returned to Faramir.  “I trust her.”  For the first time a note of threat crept into his voice, and he seemed to stiffen all over as he added.  “She knows she can come to me if she needs me.”

            Faramir’s lips formed a skeptical smile; it was merely the tip of his doubt; he could feel his misgivings in his boots.  “I doubt you have to worry, since she’s surely none too pleased with me, either.”

            Éomer shrugged, looking as though he only wished to end the conversation.  “You are free today, Faramir.  Consider it a gift for my behavior.”  And the menace returned to his voice, actually deepening it several registers, “But I do not wish to go searching for her.”

            Faramir nodded, speaking evenly; he must project only a calm demeanor, although the words angered him.  He would never do anything to frighten Éowyn.  Does he think…?  He pressed his broken hand into his thigh, the blossoming pain distracting him from the enraging thought that Éomer might believe he could be capable of attempting to force her into something she did not wish.  “I understand.”

            “You understood about the guard as well.”  It was coldly undeniable.

            He was not sensing any confidence from the Rohir, only doubt and oddly, a sort of trepidation. Maybe it is dread over what I might do?  Faramir wondered.  In any case he answered smoothly, “I will not keep her late.”

          The Lord of the Mark added, tension clipping his words.  “Or alone.”

Patiently, he echoed.  “Or alone.”

“Good.”  Éomer inclined his head again in farewell and resumed his way down the hall. 

            “Good.”  Faramir echoed the man again, rueful.  He only hoped Éowyn allowed him to see her.   Faramir had no intention of letting her go back to Rohan with her heart still angered at him and so fearful of his hand, his touch.  Please, he thought.   Please, I need you, Éowyn.    

***

        She was sent to the gardens to gather herbs first, a review of her lessons the day before; Éowyn murmured the names and all the uses she could recall as she carefully cut some from each needed plant.  It was a pleasant task as the sun was only soft, not hot and there was the ever-present breeze from the walls to bring her the scent of budding flowers.  The buzz of bees and the song of birds added to her peace and she began to hum under her breath.  Her basket was half-filled with herbs; she touched her gathered bounty, marveling at the green of them, color of new life, and the pliant, living feel of them.  It was wonderfully refreshing to handle plants after so long she’d been gone from the Mark and she smiled, leaning to cut another when faint footfalls made her jump.  Éowyn whirled, her fingers growing tight on the handle of the little white crescent knife that had been given to her, not raising it, but ready.  The person behind her was close, had come too close without her knowledge, and she could feel her heart thudding in fear, her pulse racing.

Faramir drew back a pace, obviously just as startled by her swift reaction as she was by his presence.  Éowyn stared at him, waiting, but he just held his distance and silence.  There was a strange sort of cringe on his face.  Perhaps he thought she would come to strike him again, as she’d done the afternoon before, but she’d seen him fight now and doubted she would ever dare to raise her hand with such fearless anger.  He was stronger than she was and mercilessly brutal when provoked.  I have no desire to be struck…  

Her eyes widened as she slowly took in the sight of him, and only him, and Éowyn gasped, “Oh, your throat!”  She had no more thought of anger, only terrible pity as his bruises were even darker than her brother’s, especially those that encircled his throat.  He looked contrite, not speaking, only gazing down at her with his grey eyes very solemn and shamed.  “Oh…your face…” She sighed at the marks.  It was spoiled, though just briefly, not handsome at all.

        He nodded to her, rasping.  “Good morning, Éowyn.”

        Her hand, half raised to touch him in condolence, froze, then lowered; her anger had come at the sound of his voice, mindful again of his vulgar words and how they’d hurt her.  I enjoyed his touch…was that wrong of her?  Éowyn did not wish it to be so and her heart filled with rage, knowing he’d changed her hesitant pleasure into disgrace, tainted her thrill of enjoyment by likening it to animal baseness.  As if we were no more than dogs in rut!  Her eyes burned with tears—the feeling was familiar, the transforming of buoyancy to despair, and brought another, fouler man to mind, one she’d spent every waking moment trying to forget.  How dare you…I trusted you, allowed you to touch and kiss as no other and that was my reward?  Callousness, boorishness, pain!  When she spoke, it was tense, words trembling as they emerged from her constricted throat, “What do you wish of me?  I am busy.”  Éowyn turned away from his face and bruises that inspired pity.

But her pity did not retreat entirely as Faramir’s voice was soft and raspy; clearly it pained him to speak.  “I wished to beg forgiveness and assure you, my Lady, that I have not behaved with such crudeness before now…”

“Crudeness?”  Her wrath flared as she turned to face him anew and she tightened her hand on the handle of her basket, half-tempted to waste her work and fling it at him.  “You call your words…your foul words mere crudeness?”  She was near to weeping again, heart full of pain, hissing.  “Is it crudeness to cut me just when I’d allowed you near, say that about…me when you vowed that I could trust you…no, I call that cruelty.”  Éowyn stared up at him, furious, “I have seen you show cruelty, ask me no more why I flinch from your hand!”

Faramir looked down at the grass and his plainly seen guilt cooled her ire.  He hesitated, “Please, they were words not meant for you, I thought not of you when I spoke, I meant only to…”

“To provoke my brother, yes, I know, I am no fool.”  Éowyn felt herself tremble with rage, “That does not change my heart…” Her breath caught and she admitted her pain in a ragged whisper, “Nor heal its wounds, Faramir.”

He looked at her nakedly, familiar features no longer so noble, distorted by bruises and places of swelling.  His eyes were gentle, studying hers and growing steadily more ashamed.  “What would?”

“Nothing I know.” 

Faramir nodded slowly, looking down.  She turned away and when he spoke it was very soft, hesitant, “May I walk with you a while?”

Éowyn raised her eyes to his face.  He gazed at her in return, sadly, so sadly that she felt a pang of empathy.  He had not meant to hurt her, though he had.  She swallowed, nodding, “Yes, yes, you may.”  When he took her basket, she got a look at his wounded hand and it tore her how it was swollen and bruised, the cloth and splints, the careful way he held it so that it was apart from his side and would touch nothing.  She kept her silence for many minutes, cutting more plants, this time not thinking of their uses, but the man who stood near to her.  Finally, Éowyn asked, keeping her gaze on the tender vegetation, “Does it hurt terribly, your hand?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Good.”  He just sighed and made no objections to her anger, fully returned to the mildness she’d seen, and only seen, until the night before.  Placing her cut herbs and little knife in the full basket, she grasped his wrist, careful not to touch his hand at all, turning it and examining the bandaging and the splints, telling herself it was curiosity alone that made her look with such intensity.  I wish to know the methods of healing, here is an example…  Éowyn asked, her question again born only of curiosity, in the wondering of what herbs would be given for his pain and to help heal his wounds.  “Did they give you nothing?”  She felt no sympathy whatsoever, or so she affirmed inwardly.  He received what he deserved… 

Faramir straightened and his tone became formal, accepting.  “My Lord did not permit me anything for pain.”

Like a child with a burned hand…she smiled faintly.  “Perhaps it is for the best.”  Éowyn listened to her sternness, “You will be less swift to do it again.”

He gazed down at her.  “I shall not do it again.”

Her voice was small now, tight.  “I would not have thought you to do it once.”  Éowyn bit her lip, retracing her steps to the Houses; he walked at her side, listening closely.  “I thought you were…”

He asked very softly, “What?”

“More gentle, mild…I would not have to fear.”  Safer, more predictable, more civil…in all things safe and good.  But you are not, my dear Faramir and I cannot love what I fear…she felt queasy.  But I can wed it and I shall…there was no going back for such trifling misconduct as he’d shown.  She could beg, but he would not yield, she knew that without trying.

He turned to her, protesting earnestly, “You don’t.  I would never, I give you my word…”

Impatient, she questioned, “Would you have sworn the day before that you would never have brawled with my brother?” 

“I…” He took a breath to begin and she waited, but Faramir did not complete his answer.  When she looked at him, his brow was deeply furrowed. 

“It is to my thinking that you should swear less and mind your actions more, my Lord.”  Éowyn took her basket from him and stepped through the cool threshold of the Houses.  Faramir did not follow, only gazed at her soberly before calling,

“Éowyn?  Wait.”

“Yes?”  She turned nervously; from her position in the shadow of the white stone he seemed to glow, dark hair gleaming, the sun brilliant on his shoulders; without the bruises he would have made a handsome picture.  He was still her Lord, no matter her anger, no matter the brawl; she’d given her oath to join with him.  Her Lord and her betrothed and if he commanded, she could not refuse.  And if I could?  Éowyn wondered, feeling dread stir.  It was a pointless question.  I am trapped in this marriage to a man whose manner I thought I knew but now do not…  “My Lord?”

“I am in the wrong, I admit that freely and you have all rights to reprimand me.  But…tell me, what could ease your fears?”  Faramir came closer and she stiffened, not at all in the mood for his caresses.  “I wish to ease them, for my own sake, but to please you most of all.”  He hesitated, softening, “It seemed you feared very little last night…”

“Yes, but your words…”

Faramir interrupted her in a surprising display of ill manners, making her realize how very much he was serious.  He sounded frustrated, “I did not mean them, they were not for you.”

“Nonetheless, they have changed my pleasure in your company and…” Éowyn felt herself flush a little, “Your touch,” Her flush vanished, replaced by pain that made itself known by her harsh voice, “To distress.  You have wounded me, my Lord, and wounds take time to heal…” She glanced to his hand, “I suspect you will learn that lesson.”

He nodded, despondent, then begged.  “If I promise my company shall be only pure, will you sit with me tonight at the evening meal…share my plate and consider forgiveness?”

Éowyn sighed, swinging her basket just a little.  He looked very, very pitiful with his bruises and bandages.  And…if she deigned to forgive, perhaps, at another time when he was angered with her, she could use this moment of gratitude to provoke some gratitude of his.  It felt to her more cold deliberation than warm-hearted compassion, but she nodded.  “Yes, I shall.”  Éowyn bit her lip; she’d rarely ventured from the Houses and he spoke of eating in the Hall of Feasts, with the noblemen…and women…  Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

But at her assent, Faramir smiled immediately and his shoulders seemed to lighten; he stood taller and when he bowed, it was graceful.  “I cannot wait, my Lady.”  Éowyn smiled in return, unable to curb it, and gave a courtesy to him before entering the cool shade within the Houses.

Translations:

Hwa eart ge dáng?—What are you doing?

Ic sarie, min Hlaford.-I am sorry, my Lord

 Com, Halorl, nu—Come, Halorl, now.

Ge wæmmst me, Ic wæm ge!—You ruin me, I ruin you

Swicful swin…unfæle eafora æt—!—Deceitful pig, unworthy son of a--

Hwa dest ge willst, ge lytle scréawa?  Is hit se hwicung, Ic heah?—What do you want, little mouse?  Is it the squeaking of mice, I hear?

Ná, min deore, Ic ná cann.  Ge hæfð gefricgan hit ac eowerself—No, my dearest.  I cannot.  You must figure it out for yourself

sweostor, linð…--sister, please

Ic synd líhtan it ac ge…--I am easing it for you

Léase--needlessly