He’d left her, worried and discouraged as he walked back up the street, head hanging, knowing his own black depression.  His duties had called and now Faramir tried to pretend that he didn't notice the men of the Council staring at his bruised face and neck or his splinted hand.  He was gratified, though, that their attention was divided between himself and Aragorn.  Immediately this morning the King had been presented with his seal, the gold polished and its mold cleaned of any old, remaining wax.  Faramir gazed at it, wondering at the great hands that had touched it.   

Now the King slammed the heavy metal seal down hard on document after document, doing no more than glance at what he was approving, and as the stacks thinned, he sped up, slopping wax here and there to dry in hard, red drops.   Faramir did the actual reading and sorting; discretely murmuring what each item was as it came across Aragorn's path.  The Councilmen handed the papers to him, sometimes engaging in brief arguments over whom would go next, and Faramir simply sat there with his hand sticking out until they finished.  He was too depressed to feel impatience.  He rubbed his face, heart low.  I was lucky she spoke to me.  She ran from me, from us…because I lost control, lost my temper with him…a spark of anger came to his chest, burning and resentful.  How can she be related to that boor? 

            “How many more?”  Aragorn’s voice broke him from his dark musings, the King finally removing his hand from the seal's grip and shaking his wrist.   From his grimace Faramir could imagine he was getting stiff and tired.  He himself was sore all over, throat raw, and his face aching where Éomer had struck him, his hand throbbing angrily.

            “Five and...”

            “Six!”  A small boned, birdy old man screeched in a high, thin voice.   Another roll of paper was thrust into Faramir's undamaged hand and he continued wearily,

          “Six and they're of,” He scanned it, “uh, repairs to the streets and the walls in levels one through three.”  Faramir added at Aragorn's raised eyebrow, “Some of the streets are still broken and it's creating a problem…” He went blank, then recovered, “Carts cannot get across them to even reach the upper levels for repairs there.”  Faramir rubbed his temples.  My beautiful, noble City…it was terribly ruined.  “We'll have to have the spots measured and the rocks mined and...” 

           “It sounds agreeable.”  He was all too willing to be cut off.   Faramir gave the papers to Aragorn one at a time, trying not to flinch at the whump! of the heavy metal seal as it came down, smashing the crimson wax into the paper.   Though deeper in pitch from the Steward’s seal, the sound still reminded him of his father, Denethor sitting in that same chair and frowning over papers only to fix him with a hard stare as though it were his fault that more work was laid upon his father’s shoulders.   He stirred uneasily, not wishing for a reminder.

          “Are we finished?  Is there anything more today?”  The King asked calmly, his question directed to the entire room, clearly wishing for an affirmative.   There was a brief scramble of the Councilmen whispering amongst themselves.   Finally, one answered,

           “Yes, my Lord, we have finished.”

           “Good.”  Aragorn stood and gestured for Faramir to do the same and follow him into the hall.  Curious as he could be when he was so depressed, Faramir obeyed.  Once outside, the King hesitated, “I need to know the status of…”

          “Yes?”

           “You are aware of our situation, the food…?”

“Yes.”  The stable boy came to his mind and he felt some of his dark mood evaporate, cleared by the opportunity to move, to act.  I must inspect the stables…he glanced at his broken hand.  How will I get to the roof now?

Aragorn sounded relieved.  “I need to know what we can expect to have coming into the City in way of victuals.  The dried and stored supplies are all but gone, they tell me, either destroyed or eaten.   And Éomer’s provisions will arrive in a month; they can get here no sooner unless we called upon the aid of the Eagles, but until then…” Aragorn trailed off and gazed at him sympathetically.   “Perhaps you could look within Denethor’s…” 

           “Yes…yes.”  Faramir nodded in understanding; he knew where to find the information and he dreaded going there, stomach already tensing.   “I will if you wish it, my Lord.”

          “Good.”  He clapped a friendly hand on Faramir’s shoulder, still speaking with the slight trace of sympathy.  “I thank you.”

           “You’re welcome, my Lord Elessar.”  He answered as the man moved away, glancing at his Lord’s back.   For a moment Faramir did not move, head lowered, breathing deeply, gathering himself for the effort needed.   Then, straightening, he walked purposely down the hall, wishing he felt as resolute as he strode. 

Reaching the deserted White Tower, he moved through the great, cavernous and colorless throne room, skirting the dais and the Steward’s coal black seat to gaze up the stairs that lay secreted nearby; many flights up was what his brother had once sarcastically named Father’s Lair.  It was the place Faramir had been called into countless times for stinging reproaches.   He shuddered, reluctantly mounting the stone steps and remembering his father’s bitter voice listing that day or that week’s faults in the dim, close room.   He hated the little room, hated the emotions that came with it—despair, guilt, anger, all of darkness. 

The stairwell had been stuffy and hot and he was sweating a little as Faramir stared at the door to his father’s study and wondered how many years he’d spent looking at it the same way he did now: with dread.  Of course…he thought, his mouth twisting into a pained smile, the level at which he’d glared had slowly risen as he’d grown.  His eyes had focused higher and higher until now he was looking straight into a thick, twisted knot in the wood.  He sighed, knowing he was only putting it off.   Faramir would rather have sat in the Council all day long than enter Denethor’s study.  Behind this door are too many bad memories…even simply looking at it, he felt his shoulders brace for his father’s dry voice to ring through his ears, raised to berate and scorn icily, never, ever praise.  After years of hope, he’d taken the lack of insult as praise, which hurt his heart even more in his pitiful eagerness for love, for a kindness.  Never again, never again will I hear his contempt and feel small…the knowledge gave him meager comfort, which immediately turned to shame, the shame of his happiness in the thought that his father would not be behind the door.  I am a terrible son, indeed…Faramir shook his head impatiently.  Aragorn would be waiting.

           The doorknob, when he finally gazed down at it, was dusty, something it had never been in his entire life; this caused a strange pang in his chest, the harsh arrival of an emotion he did not care to analyze.   Faramir grasped the cold metal and heard another first—the normally well oiled hinges creaked and groaned.   He swallowed hard and pushed the door forward, stepping into the room.   It had been his father’s room all the years of his Stewardship and before that, Faramir’s grandfather had used it.  But I will not use it, I will live in that great, peaceable house across the Anduin, with Éowyn in a country of flowers and sunlight.  He smiled, temporarily warmed and reassured by the memory of her despite her anger and his chagrin for his behavior.  But it did not last; gazing into the dark, close room, he realized he should have brought a candle or a lamp, but of course every time he’d ever come, his father had had light.  I did not think…he’d not thought of this room as empty.  I’ve never seen it empty…never…

Faramir closed his eyes, swallowing again as the emotion he didn’t dare to name seized him.   When he opened them, he pushed it from his mind.   The study, he found, cautiously extending his senses, felt lacking and his presence seemed terribly loud, terribly large in the small room’s silent void.  There were not even the echoes of his father’s mind, as he’d foolishly feared, Denethor blatantly disapproving from beyond the veil of the world.  He stepped more fully into his father’s study and took a deep breath.   The air smelled stale, was thick and hot; the small window was shuttered, the wood grey with dust, the sill littered with the bodies of dead insects.  Perhaps, he thought, he could gather the records and leave in peace.  

That was when the door creaked and squealed, hinges grating, then clunked shut behind him, leaving him in darkness and heavy, stagnant air.  Faramir’s heart raced; he could feel himself stiffen, whole body stilling as cold fear coursed through his veins.  Calm, calm, remember, stay calm…   There was no one here, just him and his fool imagination.   The door was old and heavy.  It had shut by itself.  Aware his mind was gibbering, tossing explanations at him in growing panic, Faramir deliberately reached over with his right hand and squeezed his left one.   The resulting explosion of pain briefly cleared his mind.   Panting, nervous sweat trickling down his temples, he took a step back, right hand stretched out behind him. 

Suddenly there was a low scrape and Faramir was a boy again, sweating lightly, shivering in the dark of his room, jumping at every sound, all the frightening stories Boromir had ever told him running through his mind…

             “Stop it.  It was you…your boot…on the stone…” He spoke aloud and his shaky voice startled him more, which angered him.  I am not a coward!  “Stop being a fool.”   Faramir gathered himself mentally, reaching out blindly, extending his arm behind him, absurdly frightened to turn his back to the room.  His questing fingers brushed metal, and then gripped the chilled doorknob with panicky tightness.   Swinging it back open, he shut his eyes hard as a breeze blew past him into the hallway.  Father?  Faramir felt his heart leap with a strange mixture of hope and dread and he shivered, hating himself for his weakness. 

        He is gone…gone forever.  His throat ached, but not from any of Éomer’s minstrations—this was the choking burn of approaching tears.  When he’d finally backed into the hall, never taking his eyes from the room, the door shut itself again the instant his hand released the knob.   The old wood groaned as it swung closed, unhurriedly, its neglected hinges squealing.   Faramir panted, disturbed; he could feel sweat running down the sides of his face, sticking his shirt to his skin under his dark, high-collared cotehardie and sable surcoat.   See, it was nothing, a door set on wrong…nothing…

 Trying not to feel his nervousness, he focused on the excruciating throbbing where he’d squeezed his hand and not the fact that his heart was hammering so hard against his ribs that it felt like it would burst from his chest at any moment.  Faramir stared at the thick knots in the door’s surface and shuddered helplessly.   He’s dead, he’s gone.  Reaching over with his right hand, he cradled his wrapped, splinted fingers gently, breathing deeply, waiting until the pain had receded to try and renter his father’s secret study.

            “Imagination.  It’s just my imagination.”  He said it out loud, hoping to convince himself.  Instead, the sound of his voice made wobbly and uncertain only served to disquiet him even more.  Faramir swallowed, his throat dry.   This was ridiculous.   There was nothing unusual about that room, only that it had a door whose hinges were set on wrong, only that it held too many bad memories.   You’re being foolish, just like Father always said—foolish and self-indulgent.   Now get in there and find what Aragorn, your King, needs to know.  Now, before you become any more useless. 

            It seemed like forever before Faramir stretched out his right hand and cautiously touched the knob.   He tried to turn it, but it slipped in his damp palm.   He wiped his hand hastily against his side and tried again.   This time the door opened easily.   As he stepped inside Faramir didn’t release the knob, but held it until he’d spotted a heavy old tome on the desk, its leather cover battered and spotted with ink splatters.   Stretching out, he picked it up, wedging his foot against the door, keeping it open.   It seems much smaller this time and darker in here somehow, Faramir’s mind babbled distractedly to itself as he dropped the book onto the floor, wincing at the loud bang!  of several pounds of leather and paper hitting the stone.  Then, stepping back watchfully, he let go of the door.

            As he’d thought, it swung immediately, hinges making that eerie creeeeakking noise until it hit the book.  Faramir breathed a sigh of relief as the door bumped the weighty tome softly, and then held still, hovering half-open.   There was enough light coming in from the stairwell and window to ease his mind, so he walked to the desk, intent upon finishing this task as swiftly as possible. 

Faramir soon bemoaned the use of only one hand as he flipped through stacks of papers.   His father’s writing was on all of them—dark, angular and hard-pressed into the paper, his signature slashed at the bottoms, seal stamped with clear force, the crimson wax flattened thin from the pressure.  Faramir, still leery of the room, ignored everything but the stacks nearest to the front, keeping an eye on the fickle door.  Most were old, from the winter, and he barely glanced at their contents before moving onto others.  Scribes’ lacy writing was thinly interspersed with his father’s harsh scrawl, but none told about what Aragorn had asked, instead listing skirmishes, numbers of orcs here and there, tracking the enemy in an attempt to predict its movements.  Still more papers were concerned with doings in the City, minor political affairs, correspondences from his uncle in Dol Amroth, forces in the South and Pelargir.  Awkwardly pushing the documents around the desk, his chest tight in the musty air of the room, Faramir eventually found what he wanted.

“Here, thirty acres of wheat…” He read aloud in his incredible gladness to find it.  Now he could leave.  The thick list of the lands to be planted this year told the number of people who would work the fields, and thus, receive a portion of the crops.  Something that was annually sent to the Steward for approval, Faramir knew that his father usually only looked at it long enough to make sure the amount of harvest yielded would take care of the City’s needs before he approved it.  But what is needed?  Times were different, needs had changed.  What do I do?  How could he even help his Lord?  I am useless.

             He scanned the records, growing anxious again, lifting the papers and balancing them against the front of his surcoat; many, many fields were listed, more than he’d had any idea existed.   Faramir looked back at the desk, but he could see nothing else that might be of value.   He read for a few minutes, his fear rallying under this new source of anxiety.  How…how do I do this?  He could understand what he was seeing, read the locations of the planted lands, read what was planted on them, read how much would be fiefed to Elessar and how much would be kept by the working peasants…but…  How did he judge what the City needed?  How could he be certain that his folk within its walls and the common folk who farmed it would have enough?  Faramir groaned.  He had no experience; Denethor had controlled everything, leaving minor duties to Boromir, virtually nothing of consequence to him.  I am disadvantaged…just like he was with Éowyn and Éomer. 

Preparing to leave, he was distressed to find that he couldn’t.   This was his father’s place, and his father’s alone.   Neither of Denethor’s sons had ever spent much time in this small, solitary room.   Faramir shifted on the balls of his feet, thinking uneasily that this airless chamber was the best place, nay, the only place to be aware of his father’s presence save the Hallows.  And I will not enter there until I am dead…he shuddered all over, knowing he had no courage to visit his father’s tomb.

   Why Father?  He gazed at the varnished desk whose surface was thick with dust for probably the first time in decades.   His eyes moved to the hard backed chair behind it, still tilted away from the desk, facing the hall as though Denethor had only pushed out of it a minute before and descended to the throne room, answering some summons.  Why did you hate me, Father?   Why wasn’t I good enough?    There was no answer but the rising sound of his increasingly uneven breathing. 

Fool.  There never will be, Faramir thought bitterly, hanging his head, fighting the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.   Dust motes swirled in the small streams of sunlight from the blurred window and the piles of paperwork and books sat mute and forgotten as they had for months, the only witnesses to his struggle.   Eventually, Faramir raised his head, stilled his trembling muscles, collected himself and left.   Aragorn, he knew, would be waiting on him and he’d borne enough guilt.

***

        He returned at midday as he’d said he would and she met him in the gardens.  “This is where I met Faramir.” 

Once he’d given word of the accepted apology, Éowyn seemed determined to speak of her betrothed with ease and to ignore the way he fidgeted, distinctly uncomfortable and disturbed both by her words and his own discomfort.  I hate him…but he loved her and should hold his temper for her.  Ah, but I hate him…he is too bold, too bold…odd, that had not been his impression of Faramir at all.  His spine stiffened.  He deceived me…how?

        Ceasing his inner dialogue with an effort, Éomer swallowed and tried to sound pleasant, “Is that so?”

        “Yes.”  She gestured to the trees, the stone benches.  “We talked a great deal.”

        “About what?”  Instantly he was jealous, thinking that while he’d been pining for his sister’s company, the Steward had been enjoying it.  Éomer stared at the grasses, the greenery, the birds that hopped or sang, the small creatures that lived within the gardens. 

        “Nothing much…weather, our wounds, the Darkness…”

        He added sourly, “Wedding.”

        Éowyn’s tone had become more curt, a warning.  “Yes.  He asked for my hand, there, against the wall.”

        Were you so dizzy from the height, then, that you said yes?  Éomer held his tongue, nodding in a farce of patience and acceptance.  Her eye flashed; his sister was no fool to his moods and her own swiftly turned dark.

        Éowyn turned her head, saying coolly, “I must return.  I have promised my aid to the Healers.”

        This was something new; he’d not known her to be so interested in the arts of healing before.  He nodded more slowly, “Tonight, I will see you?”  Brightening, he added, “We can dine together, I can tell you of Cormallen and you can tell me of the Houses, what you did.”  His cheerful anticipation in their reunion this night, sitting together so that it was almost like home in this foreign City, nearly made him babble, “I’m curious, why do you offer your aid?  Is it interest?”

        She warmed slightly.  “Yes.”

        “You held none before…” Or did she?  He remembered words of Aragorn’s when the King had pulled his sister from the black abyss the Witchking had sent her into…I have been busy for many years, what have I missed in riding the Mark?  He felt remorse, glancing to Éowyn’s face.  I missed your pain…I missed much.  No matter the danger to his country, it was a shameful negligence on his part.  She is my responsibility…Éomer looked to his sister again and felt the stinging prick of anguish.  Not for long…

        She was answering his question with a faint smile, “No, but I do now.”  Éowyn glanced away from him, her eyes alighting on the shadowy East, then looking away, deeper into the City.  Her smile held a quality he’d not seen before and wondered at, as did her voice, softer, more gentle and contented.  “My heart has been kindled to it.”

        “Ah, tonight, you can tell me how it came about.”  He smiled, gesturing, eager to keep her good will, “Go, if you must.”

        But she did not leave him and hesitating, she replied, “Tonight, Faramir…”        Éomer needed to hear no more; his teeth clicked as his jaw clamped tight with the formidable burst of irritation that rose in his chest.  And yet, despite his ire, he felt fear course through his gut, making him terribly uneasy, not even knowing his own mind any longer. 

        He took a breath before replying, trying to steady his head and heart.  “Tomorrow, then, I will see you.”  Éomer lowered his voice to admit quietly, “I missed you, sister.”

        “I missed you as well, my brother,” She smiled some, “My foolish sibling.”

        “Only foolish?”  He teased her lightly, “I must be forgiven if you have no harsher names for me, sister.”

        She laughed, then shoved his side, admonishing, “Go, before I think of some of the names you have so richly earned.” 

        Éomer turned, then halted, facing her again.  He stretched out his arms, hoping and she embraced him tightly, hugging with enough strength to ease whatever worries he might have borne about her injured arm.  Éowyn pulled away first and squeezed his hand before returning to the Houses.

Alone, Éomer spent the day amongst his men, making sure everyone that could travel was ready.   He walked through the City, boots clumping on the stone streets, ducking into the houses that had been provided for his people, nodding politely as they saluted or stood.   Everywhere, in every house he entered, the white horse hung from the rafters, drawings on bits of paper, ancient, tattered banners, some even fashioned from his men’s own garments; they were symbols of his peoples’ homesickness.   Éomer, walking alone, understood.   He, too, wished for the great, free grasslands of Rohan instead of the cold, enclosed Minas Tirith.   Slowly he moved through the levels, entering every narrow alley, and darkened archway to make sure he missed no one. 

             He could have easily gotten someone to do this for him, but Éomer had wished to do it.   They were his people, for better or worse, and it was his responsibility.   “You ride at dawn; make ready.”  He said it over and over until he was hoarse, giving the order that would take all but his sister, himself and an honor guard from the City and ease Minas Tirith’s strained resources.  “You ride at dawn.”  All the while his mind was on something else, someone else—his sister.  Black and silver, in disgust Éomer gazed at the Guard that stood at the fourth Gate, eyeing his sable surcoat, his stiff, forbidding posture.  Their colors are as cold as the stones I walk on.  There was no life, no heart to those colors, just as there was no life in the pale grey rock that composed the City.   He wondered dismally if Éowyn would be happy in this bleak and cheerless place. 

            Outside the City, breathing in a great sigh of relief as the immense stone walls released him, Éomer strode through the crowd, walking to where the small ground tents had been set.   Here were his, his, would he ever get used to that?  best horsemen, his herders and the entirety of the remaining herds of unhurt war horses; released from their stalls and small pens in the City, they bucked and snorted, restless in their vast rope corrals, tossing their well-made heads and turning their eyes back west in anticipation.   Éomer smiled, gently touching the soft noses offered in his direction, murmuring greetings; they knew where their home was and it was not in some cold city of rock, but the broad, grassy plains. 

            “We are ready, my Lord.”  Scæmwin spoke quietly from behind him as he entered the largest tent; the Master of Horse sat on an upturned saddle, his fingers firmly working tallow into the leather of a war bridle. 

            “All of them, Master?”  Éomer gave a small gesture to the vast herd, several thousand strong.   All up and down the long lines of rope hung waist-high on wooden staves men tossed hay into the masses of horses, feeding them.   Dust rose as the geldings competed for the best of the feed, squealing and kicking to retain their portions.

            “Aye, my Lord.   They would go all day if we let them.”  The grizzled older man smiled slightly.   He’d been Master of Horse for thirty years and was wise in the ways of the Mark’s four-legged brothers.   He was irreplaceable, and had come along the road to Minas Tirith only after war—Scæmwin alone knew the names and breeding of every Mearas and highborn horse in the Mark.   It was in his blood; the knowledge passed down by father to son, growing with every generation.   Many injured horses had recovered their strength and courage under his understanding hands; Éomer stood respectfully, well aware of his ignorance in the presence of this great man.  

He glanced at Scæmwin out of the corner of his eye, wondering, suddenly not at all confident.  What does he think of me?  I am young, rash, he knew of his reputation, unskilled in ruling…  Éomer felt his chest tighten and spoke to relieve it.   “Where is Byrga, Master?”  He turned as he asked, looking for his gelding in the churning herd.  The grey had been brought from the Mark as Firefoot was lame, one of his hooves cracked, ruined in the stony, lifeless soil of the Black Lands.  For a moment he felt intense anger and regret.  The chestnut had been a fine mount and shown great bravery in battle.

            “That way, my Lord.”  Scæmwin answered, nodding to the left without even looking up from the leather reins in his hands.  “My Lord Éomer?”  He spoke just as Éomer was about to go and see his mount, halting him in his tracks.

            “Yes, Master?”

            “We have no mount for the Lady Éowyn.”  Éomer merely nodded.  After a beat of silence, Scæmwin frowned, raising his eyes to continue slowly.  “I can choose one or if you like, she can come and pick her own horse.  I would not presume to know my Lord or Lady’s wishes.”  The Master shrugged noncommittally. 

        Éomer nodded again, feeling foolish and inept; the man obviously expected him to take charge, to order him, to know what to do…I know nothing.  “I will speak to her.”   Weakly, he smiled and gestured to the vast herd, “Care for them for me?”  With a nod, the Master went back to his bridle.  

***

        Éowyn had been ushered into the room, otherwise she would have fled, visiting the ill, the dying, the men so terribly disfigured by their wounds it was pain to look upon them, anywhere but here.  The nursemaid looked only charmed by the tiny creature she held; Éowyn was horrified as it wiggled and wailed.  The woman misjudged her expression, reassuring, “Do not worry, my Lady, this little one is not injured.”  She smiled and cuddled it within its wrap of soft cloth, cooing gently. 

        Then why am I here?  Éowyn shifted her feet, noting the stares of many children on her.  One smiled gummily and stood on its cot, reaching for her hair, mumbling something with enthusiasm.  As if it were a signal, many others did as well, giggling or speaking in incomprehensible babble and trying to touch her long, fair hair.  They fell against her skirts and Éowyn fought to hold her ground, smiling in nervousness, wishing to extricate herself, but unsure how.  “No, no…” She tugged back the hunk of her flaxen mane and the child wailed at once.

        The healer smiled.  “They like you, my Lady.”

        “Is that so?”  Éowyn jumped at the sudden movement of what had been a perfectly still, deeply sleeping child.  Her reaction was unplanned, as instinctive as the sideways leap of a spooking horse.  I am little versed in the handling of babes…  They seemed terribly odd little creatures to her, not quite human, yet not of beastly kind.  Animals she could predict, their quiet language she could read, could understand—the movements and sounds of the children were terribly foreign, not at all like anything she was used to and it made her jumpy. 

        “No doubt you will enjoy the company of your own children.”

        Her throat closed, only allowing her to laugh tensely and gasp, nodding, “Yes…yes…” The thought of being chained to one of the helpless, alien creatures was incredibly dismaying, much less her further imaginations of the pain of bearing it.  Why…why could I have not been born a man?  Free, free…her skin itched with long-known frustration.  Her brother was free, why couldn’t she have been born a man as well?

        “You should spend time with them, prepare…” The woman’s voice lowered to say, “The City will rest easier if Lord Faramir sires a son soon.  We have escaped Shadow, but only narrowly…so narrowly…” The nursemaid rocked the little babe; it made aimless noises that Éowyn found perturbing, strange.  “And our Lord Elessar has not yet wed or selected a bride.  It would assure the peoples, comfort them to know the Steward’s line was held.”  The healer paused, “Several sons would be best.”  Éowyn stared at her and the woman smiled, “But none expect that of you so soon, my Lady.”

        Was that an insult or meant as a comfort?  “I see.”  She did see and it was the greyness of her future coming faster than she’d ever imagined, like the rising wall of the Sea Faramir had described in his vision.  It would soon crest, and then descend with all its weight to crush her and sweep her away until she could not remember what she was now.  Éowyn felt trapped, adrift and frightened all at once.  Her eyes fell upon the children that surrounded them, peeping from low-lying cots, cribs woven with reeds, some merely sitting on blankets.  There were many children.  Orphans…she felt her throat close.  Once she’d been like to them, but Théoden…oh, kindly Uncle, do you watch over me and shake your head at my foolish weaknesses? had taken her in, taken Éomer and raised them so closely that it was hard not to name herself as his daughter.

“Would you like…?”  The healer offered the babe.

Swiftly, interrupting the woman with quick intent, Éowyn begged, “Please, are there any I can help…others that need wounds dressed, given draughts…?”  Something she knew how to deal with, anything but the alien babes and their big eyes that looked at her for everything.  My own child, Faramir’s child…she shuddered, frightened and feeling claustrophobic.  Oddly, it was not the idea of Faramir that brought her the greatest unease, but herself—he was gentle, good to her, pure of aim despite his conduct with her brother.  I am not worthy…my heart and blood are not of worth to bear the Steward’s son, to care and teach the child…a child that will rule lands and people I cannot even understand…  Éowyn glanced around the small nursery and was gravely dismayed.  What have I agreed to?  What will I do?  She could beg for an ending of their union.  It was not announced to all peoples and Lords that she knew of and had not been long-made.  They would think that we came close, but did not meet in agreement.  She swallowed, thinking…he said he would see me as Queen…Éowyn felt her soul shrivel, repelled by her own cowardice as her thought completed itself.  Perhaps he would see me free as well…

        The woman seemed surprised by her request.  “Yes, my Lady, of course.”  Éowyn nodded, pasted a smile to the children that watched her so stilly and left with quick, eager steps.

        When she finally strode out of the Houses it was near sunset and Faramir was waiting for her, but his back was turned as he stood against the wall and looked out over the Pelennor.  Éowyn halted before he could hear her approach.  She studied him; his injured arm was held against his front, making it seem as though he wore his sling again, as though the days had not passed since the Shadow had been destroyed.  His hair stirred in the strong winds; the dwindling sunlight that he faced into gleamed ruby-red and orange, tinting his sable surcoat, his dark trousers and boots, his fair skin and inky hair and all the grey stone about him with a warm, reddish glow.  He seemed but a dark silhouette against the fiery sunset, a long figure, tall and noble.  She smiled faintly, thinking more poetically, a shaft of steel before the forger’s flames, waiting to be plunged into them…her smile faded…fired and beaten into a more pleasing shape. 

        He turned, but still leaned against the wall, and she gazed at his profile, noting the bruises, the care with which he shielded his left hand.  Éowyn frowned.  She’d been taught this day in the uses of medicines for pain, had even carefully prepared remedies for the injured…it would be simple to take him within the Houses and relieve some of his discomfort. 

        But do I wish to?  He’d hurt her, should she show mercy?  Faramir turned fully and saw her.  His face alighted at once, features glad even under their cloak of bruises, and Éowyn dropped her eyes, uncertain and wishing she could forget the night before.  What I enjoyed he has turned to bitterness and dust, how could I trust it would never happen again?  Her mind showed her the face of another man, his skin pallid from where he dared not to leave Meduseld, his pale eyes that were nothing like her brother’s, her cousin’s, but like to a serpent’s: venomous, uncaring.  Remembering his cold hands that sought to catch her unaware, to touch, to even lewdly…  She shuddered.  Caress though he knew, skin to heart, I loathed him.  Faramir was nothing like to that, but his words, his obscene words had exposed a part of him kept hidden by gallantry, by civilities and she feared what else might lurk beneath his gentle smile, his soft touch.  Even the worm had not been a worm in the beginning.  Over and over and I could not flee…her chest grew taut, years and years…pain upon pain upon fear…  She stared at him, then gazed at the City around her.  I cannot flee from my husband…no!  Éowyn breathed slowly, evenly, masking her fright.  She could not trust and would not dare to.  I must beg freedom.  But as he began to approach, her heart, which she had judged firm, wavered then abandoned her intention with panicky swiftness and she thought, tomorrow…

“My Lady?”  His voice, though properly formal, held hope, pleasure in her appearance and a note of cheer which settled her thinking: mercy she would grant and swiftly. 

If I am to break his heart…  She smiled, hesitant, and did him a brief courtesy.  “Lord Faramir.”

“I could not wait to meet you in the Hall of Feasts.”  His smile widened, but his strides to meet her were slow, watchful. 

“I am glad you did not…” His face lit up again and she felt a pang of guilt.  Éowyn gestured to his hand, speaking more softly, “If you wish, I can take some of your pain from you…” She assured, “I have given draughts to many this day.”  To her amazement, Éowyn felt her mouth curve up in a smile and she heard herself jest, “And none have died.”

“Is that so?”  He chuckled, and then grey eyes held her.  His voice was perfectly formal, slightly searching.  “You do not think I need the lesson any longer, my Lady?”

She licked her lips, wary and knowing that she could not offer relief and still be called angry; she must give up her grudge.  “No.”

Faramir seemed to glow with his delight and when he smiled, it was brilliant.  He accepted her offer quickly, “Please, then, yes.”  His formality dropped with his laugh, “Éowyn, my love, I thank you in advance; it has been difficult day, I thought I would have to call aid to even dress myself.”

Gesturing, she nodded.  “Follow me, my Lord.”  His face deflated, less marked by enthusiasm with her words, the precise and not at all intimate form of address.  Pretending she did not see or feel just the slightest urge to call him by his name, Éowyn led him into the storage rooms, rooting for what she needed among many, many drawers of herbs—seeds of juniper, a cup and white wine.  Her search was not swift and she felt his eyes on her as he waited.

 More herbs hung from the ceiling, were laid to dry on racks, were packed into barrels or long, deep wooden bins; on the flat surfaces of the wooden containers, stone bowls were still half-filled with crushed remains.  “Here.”  She’d found a small packet of the seeds and the wine and laid them on the tabletop that was made before him with a cabinet of stacked drawers, each with a brass handle and a name penciled in the language she could not read.  “Chew the seeds and drink.”

He obeyed, grimacing as he crunched the bitter kernels, then washed them down with the wine.  Faramir cringed, moving his tongue and lips, drinking more wine before asking, “Are you certain none died?”

“Yes!”  Éowyn felt wonder at her laugh.  She’d been sure that all her pleasure in his company was tainted, but she found that she was wrong and that she was both amused by his distaste and touched by how he accepted her treatment without question.  He made faces of disgust, but trustingly ate all that she provided, quickly drinking from the cup of wine to relieve himself of the acrid flavor.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”  She felt her stomach flutter as he came a little closer, but Faramir did not touch her.  Instead, his hand rose to her arm, hovering several chaste inches from her flesh as he raised a brow,

“Come with me?”  He smiled, “I have missed you at the meals.”  Faramir’s voice lowered, deepened, became more affectionate.  “You should have been by my side long ago…sharing my plate and my company.”  In repeating himself, she saw his earnestness, his desire for companionship and for more, for love.  “I have missed you.”

She had no answer, thinking with shame of her desire to release herself from her promise of union.  It would clearly hurt him.  How greatly?  Glancing into his eyes, she read their warmth and grew silently defensive.  He cannot be in love!  He barely knows me!  “Now?”  Éowyn glanced at her gown, dismayed at its coarseness, the places she’d managed to get stained or dirtied.  Her others were little better, but would be clean.

“I guessed you might wish to enter when it was not so crowded.”  Faramir smiled brightly and she saw again his desire for companionship, “I would like you to meet others of my family…” His smile vanished and he dipped his brow, voice no longer light, but rough, “Those that are…here.  My cousins, Uncle.”

She answered stiffly, wondering if she would displease him, “I would rather have a moment to garb myself in something more befitting the Steward’s,” The word stuck in her throat, “Intended than these,” Éowyn plucked at her skirt with disdain, “Castoffs.”

“As you will it.”  As though his own will was meaningless, Faramir smoothly accepted and nodded.  “I will wait outside the Houses, my Lady.  Unless…” He paused.

“Yes?”

“You would find something of my mother’s more suiting…” His expression was a mixture of eagerness to please, delicate hope and something that she could not read.

But she could read his desire for still more ties between them, for still more intimacy in every way.  He sought to garb her in finery, like a Lady of the City, like that which had been worn by the previous Steward’s wife.  I am not a Lady…she belonged in wool, in rough cloth, in boots, in men’s breeches…in a saddle, with a spear.  Not in fine silks, cradling his babe to her breast.  Her stomach tensing, aware that the grey wave of her future hung over her head, Éowyn found solace in formality.  “If you think so, my Lord.”

“I would like to see you in them…her clothing has not been worn in a long time, it lies useless…I would not have it so forever.”  Éowyn did not reply, setting a patient, open cast to her features, indicating that she was merely awaiting his command.  He stared at her, his face falling into what it often did—puzzlement.  She waited.  Faramir finally nodded, but his lightsome smile had faded.  “I will take you to where her things are kept…and find women to aid you.”

Éowyn did not wish for women, but held her tongue.  She nodded, dipping her brow in acknowledgement to his words.  The mantle had been beautiful, exquisitely crafted and dyed a rich blue she’d not even seen before in any cloth, the blue of the night sky just past twilight when the stars began to shine.  It had even held the stars upon it, which made her marvel still at the care that some weaving woman had taken, making sure the mantle was spun with threads of silver that glimmered and twinkled.  The promise of wearing another lovely garment tingled in her belly, provoking odd, girlish excitement.  Éowyn could not remember feeling that way before, or at least in such a very, very long time that she’d forgotten.  Uncertain, she hid her enthusiasm in another restrained nod.  “As you will it.”

He began to walk, then halted.  Faramir looked disquieted.  “What do you wish?  Tell me.  Please.”

She averted her eyes, hiding once more in formality.  “To wear what pleases you, my Lord.”

        He frowned deeply, but did not speak any more.

***

He paced before the door, troubled.  All his concentrations had revealed no more than flashes of nerves, inexplicable sadness and…delight; at times the emotions had not even seemed connected with his words.  Faramir was frustrated, pounding his unbroken fist rhythmically against his thigh.  What can I do?  Now that he was forgiven he had more liberty to act, but what actions did he take?  I spoiled last night…that was clear.  So he had to behave as though he’d not spent all that time kissing or caressing her, soothing her so that she fell asleep against him and snuggled closely without fear.  But…

He groaned in harsh frustration.  Why must it be difficult?  Why must she?  Faramir raised his eyes to the door; it was closed and he heard nothing within but the faint murmur of voices.  He supposed he would find the reason for her difficulty when he found the reason for her fears.  But for now…now he had to act with care, to repair the damage he’d caused with his break with control.  I must act as highborn as I have ever done.  He could do that, but it was hard not to touch her, to hold himself in reserve.  I wish…feeling his impatience, Faramir turned to the door again, even knowing that he had no way of seeing her.  My wife, my home, my garden and days ruled by peace and civility.  He wished to forget orcs or foul men, to forget blood and death and pain and loss.  A dark smile touched his lips.  Is that such a great request that the Vala will not grant it?

He could tell that she was approaching, feeling the baffling and blanketing foreignness of her mind among the women whom he could read effortlessly—they were perplexed, disappointed.  He frowned, not understanding, but guessing he would soon.  The door opened and the women came first, curtseying and withdrawing, their duty done.  Then his love came into the hall and he felt an echo of the women’s disappointment.  Nothing but faint anxiety came to his senses though by her expression Faramir knew many thoughts ran through her.  Éowyn looked beautiful; her hair was in a long, thick braid like his dream, which made him brighten, but to his surprise she was clothed in a very modest gown.  In finding the mantle to shield her from the cold winds, he’d come across much rich clothing; however, the one she’d chosen was not one of them. 

Instead, the garment was no more than a long-sleeved ivory tunic covered with a rose-colored and sleeveless overdress.  It was simple, very simple, and not even of silk or velvet, made without threads of precious gold or silver and worn without jewels to adorn it.  He sighed, not able to smother his reaction.  Simple, not especially flattering, he wondered when his mother had worn the gown; most of her things had been richer as befit the wife of the Steward.  Did she purposely pick this one…this dull frock?  Why?  Why would she not take any of the richer?  He wondered, still gazing at her as Éowyn stood with hands clasped, eyes turned down, waiting for him to speak.  It was very modestly cut, only dipping in a round curve under her collarbone and not showing a bit of her bosom; the cream-colored sleeves extended to her wrist.  Neither the sleeves nor the bodice were tight enough to show her clear shape, all of it covering her equally well. 

When she looked up, eyes wide in agitation, Faramir smiled at her and extended his arm, hiding his dissatisfaction that she had not adorned herself more lavishly.  Perhaps she is shy to use my mother’s things…  He glanced at her graceful throat, her slender wrists, her fair brow, wishing to see bright jewels, gold, a thin circlet mithril, treasures that befitted her loveliness and valor.  Maybe someday he could convince her to bear them.

  Éowyn took his arm, but with some degree of wariness.  He wondered if she were intimidated by the prospect of eating in the Hall of Feasts and smiled again.  She was frowning and her voice was faint, nervous.  “You aren’t pleased with me.”

“No…” He sighed, exiting the short passage and beginning to walk up the last incline to the Hall.

“Why?”

Faramir chose his response carefully.  “I thought you would prefer a gown…more rich in appearance.”  He chanced to look at her, saw her frown and said, “To wear jewels, perhaps, to adorn it.”  Her reply was slow in coming and so low he had to bend to hear it, but when he did he was surprised at her firmness. 

“I do not wear them in my own lands.  I do not wear silks or jewels or any of the other rich things I saw…” Éowyn seemed very intense, looking at him with her exotically pale eyes sober and forceful.  “I am not a Lady of the City and…” Her forcefulness died in a flash of nerves and her voice was less strong, “Do not believe I will dress or act like one, my Lord…” She’d dwindled to a whisper, “Or you shall be gravely disappointed.”

Faramir tried to lift her spirits, smiling broadly, “You do not disappoint, merely surprise, my Lady, my love.”  He ventured into more starry-eyed discourse, halting her and gathering her braid into his hand to show it to her.  The fading sunlight gleamed off her lustrous, uncommonly straw-colored hair.  “Here is gold more lovely than that mined in any dwarf mountain, fit only for the use of the highest of Lords, the richest in luster…” He lifted his hand much more slowly, carefully, to touch near to the corner of her eye, and murmur.  “Here, color richer and brighter than any jewel sparkling in the sun, rarer than Silmarils to my eye, my love.”  He smiled and she laughed mutely, turning away so that he touched her cheekbone.  Faramir was pleased that she did not recoil in fear, heart lifting as she only turned back to gaze at him in demure silence, listening with an expression of amazement.  I have thus far conquered…

He continued, stroking the gentle curve of her face and marveling anew at the softness of her skin, “Flesh fairer than costly ivory,” He lowered his voice, “And softer than silks to my rough hand.”

To his delight the cheek he touched darkened and Éowyn gave the smallest of shakes of her head, answering weakly.  “Your hand is not rough.”

He added much more softly, teasing her now, his spirits buoyant, flooded with rapture that she both allowed and seemed to enjoy his touch and simplistic poesy.  “Such delicate, snowy loam, where roses bloom every day…”

Her eyes had widened, were watching him with some new expression of awe and wonder that he did not understand.  Faramir smiled at her, his soul warming as she did not flinch or draw from his caressing fingers, passing over her cheek, skirting the corner of her lips.  Her eyes met to his and he felt a pull, the desire to bend, to kiss, and to take her in his arms.  She seemed soft, seemed perfectly complacent and he bent, forgetting all his vows of pure conduct.  But she withdrew before he could meet her, her pale eyes studying his.  Faramir waited, unsure if her movement was a true rebuke; then, as he paused, she relented and her gaze seemed distinctly welcoming.  With a smile he bent further, utterly delighted, almost forgetting his kiss as she lifted her chin to meet him, her lips colored rosy like the gown she wore, rising as a bloom did to the Sun. 

It was her first true movement to meet him and Faramir kept his control, though it was an effort, wishing to hold her tightly, to kiss with passion instead of what he did—his able hand touching just to her waist, his mouth meeting hers with temperance, no more than a press or two which only teased rather than satisfied.

Pulling back, he jested lightly, heart so giddy that he wondered if his boots even touched the ground any longer.  “Why, my Lady, perhaps you should not wear jewels or embellishments, they would only distract from your beauty!”

Éowyn laughed, faintly, but it was a laugh and pulled back, lightly slapping his hand aside.  “Do not lie, Faramir.”

He was even more pleased to finally hear his name and grinned.  But her words were mildly puzzling.  “I am not lying.”

Her response was good-natured, making him wonder with bemusement if he should compliment her more often.  “You praise too much.  I am not that fair, nor beautiful.”

“Yes, you are.”

Éowyn shook her head firmly, still smiling.  “No…”

He halted, frowning in a pretense of sternness.  “Who is Lord?”

But to his surprise, for all that he’d thought it was plain his words were merely jest, her eyes dropped and she became quiet, then to his dismay, apologized meekly.  “You, my Lord.  Forgive me.”

Faramir touched her chin, making her raise her eyes, perturbed by her reaction.  “You’ve not angered me, Éowyn.”  She did not respond, looking away and he sighed a breath drawn from the very soles of his boots.  So difficult…why?!  “I jested.”  He shifted his feet, “I thought it was clear…to you.”  There was no reply and he despaired.  Faramir glanced to the sun; it was very low and they would be late if he took much longer.  “Come.”

He escorted her into the Hall of Feasts, glancing at rich tapestries that blocked drafts and adorned the pale stone walls, reaching all the way to the high ceiling and threaded with precious metals, equally valued jewels set within the fabric.  The floor was smooth stone positioned into a complex pattern of dark and light, gleaming and stretching the length of the Hall with each ebony square decorated by silver inlay.  Faramir led Éowyn deeper, seeking his own seat with servants bearing wine and platters dodging them and murmuring acknowledgments.  He could see their surprise at his company and felt a great burst of contentment.  It is as it should be…

He glanced at the long tables arrayed with plates and knifes gilded with silver and gold, lightly jeweled goblets and tall candelabras of gleaming gold topped with fat white candles that burned brightly.  Faramir felt wonder.  He’d not seen the Hall so richly ornamented in so long that each day he entered it was to lose his breath; in his father’s time it had been stripped, darker, colder and less rich, all the King’s finery locked away in chests, only the Steward’s more austere trimmings used.  The great center seat had been empty, but now it was not and his heart lifted to see Aragorn there, his Uncle, Imrahil seated at his side.  It is as it should be…should have been…

Éowyn seemed touched by wonder, too, gazing around herself.  He smiled, pleased.   Soon all shall be as it should…

***

Once she’d caught her breath at the elegant sight, she’d never been so horrified in her life.  Éowyn wanted to shrink to the size of a mouse, then escape beneath the eyes of all the fine nobles and ladies that surrounded her.  The Hall of Feasts was impossibly rich and she felt a deep longing for the comparatively inelegant Meduseld, for the soot-darkened wood and faded wool banners on the walls, the twisted gold tooling, the cups of ale and plates of common food, the straw and fresh herbs crushing beneath her feet.  She looked at the fine plates and knifes and mourned for the plain wooden trenchers, her pewter cup.  Even the drunken, singing Riders and the ever-present dogs, the stray hounds she’d always been irritated by, were part of her nostalgia.

Oh, do not say this is my home…  Éowyn followed Faramir’s guidance with fainting steps, all the way to the dais and row of seats at a short table elevated above all others.  She felt so many eyes upon her that her skin crawled and her breath came short.  They stared, they whispered, they laughed; she fought to contain herself, concentrating on Aragorn’s pleased smile and friendly greeting.  He half rose to bow, a gesture that even she knew as one of great respect and fondness.

“Éowyn, welcome, I have hoped you would come.”

She nodded and courtesyed in reply, feeling weak as Faramir, one-handed and quick, if not graceful, pulled her chair for her.  Éowyn sat, tidying her skirts and noting the girl that sat before her was the same girl as in the Houses.  The man who was seated opposite of Faramir was Imrahil; she knew him only vaguely but understood he’d been one of her rescuers.  He smiled at her, and though his eyes bore the wisdom of great age, his noble face was only seasoned, still unlined.  She dipped her brow to him, quick not to show offense and thinking that he reminded her almost painfully of Théoden—a warrior hale, vigorous and matured beyond all foolhardy rashness.

He spoke and his voice was warm, kind, too friendly for all that they’d not spoken before; it was the affection of family and made her flatten her fingers to her thighs not to fidget.  “I see you are at last well enough to grace us, Lady Éowyn.”  Imrahil’s gaze dropped and rested upon her gown for several beats, making her wonder.

It would be unthinkable not to answer; in looking up, she caught Faramir’s beaming smile.  “Yes.”

“Have you met my daughter?”

“Briefly, my Lord, in the Houses.”  The brown-haired girl smiled at her and Faramir beamed again.  He was clearly happy and her heart ached.  She should not have come, should not have given him this memory to mourn.  I am cruel…  Éowyn looked at her empty plate.  Her wine was full, however, and she took it to sip, tasting its vibrant, sweet flavor.  It was better wine than any in her lands.

***

Lothiriel leaned closer and asked in the tones of one who merely wished confirmation, “Lady Éowyn…your brother is Lord Éomer…?”

She answered only quietly and with clear shyness.  “Yes.”

She is so shy…again the mystery of it baffled him.  Faramir smiled as his cousin queried spiritedly, “Tell me, for I have met him, is he customarily so rude?”

His uncle scolded at once.  “Lothiriel.  That is not proper.”

She retorted with equal firmness.  “Neither was he.” Faramir smiled again; though his interaction with her had been limited, his younger cousin often reminded him of his brother—both were strong-willed, impatient and commanding.  Though I hear she had more inclination for her studies…his smile turned sentimental, longing for the days of Boromir glaring at his books and tossing quills out of the windows to float and fly down to the streets below. 

But Éowyn merely smiled and did not look offended; as Faramir watched, she was slowly warming and relaxing, the frost that gilded his flower seeming to melt away quicker and quicker each day.  “At times.”  The first courses were being served and her attention was divided, making her answer a bit hesitant, “My brother…is more used to the field of battle than a civilized court.”

“That was plain.”

Imrahil protested again.  “Lothiriel.”  Faramir laughed, he could not help it.  But his laughter dried with her words,

“Tell me, cousin, who marked your face and hand?”  Lothiriel continued boldly, as though she already knew the answer, “And the eye of our beloved Elessar?”

Aragorn said nothing, allowing him to reply.  Has the gossip spread so far?  He swallowed, uncertain, thinking more of Éowyn’s heart in painting Éomer in the light of a villain, than the man’s reputation. 

But his love did not hesitate, “My brother.”

Faramir watched his cousin and her converse.  “I pity him…he moves like a storm, striking swift to cause mayhem and yet he is not at all aware until he sees the smashed ruins, caught in the moment.  He is lost, to my thinking.”

He knows what he does!  He felt an rush of black fury, barely containing it and keeping his calm expression, his jaw grown tight, able hand balled into a fist under the table.  His vehemence was strange, but felt good, almost too good.

The Lord of Dol Amroth appeared indignant.  “Éomer is a good lad, he’s shown naught but honorable conduct in my presence.”

Lothiriel gazed at Imrahil with indulgence.  “Few could be angered at you, Father.”  She repeated, “I pity him” and Faramir could not hold his tongue.

His words were harsh, flat.  “I do not.”

“Not at all?”  His cousin’s eyes met his and they were surprised.

Éowyn was looking down; Aragorn’s gaze rested upon him with some concern.  Faramir refused to feel shame.  Éomer was a bully, a man of crudeness who needed to be taught manners.  I am not the one who should be shamed!  He answered with a hard, cold and oddly familiar tone of finality.  “No.” 

Lothiriel’s reply was shocking, an unsubtle reprimand which stunned them all into silence.  “Father, tell me again who sits as Steward?”

***

In the strained quiet, Éowyn gazed at the food on her shared plate; it sat neatly between her and Faramir.  But none touched their plates and she carefully adhered to their example.  When the tables had been served, Aragorn stood and all did as well, Éowyn with a sense of partial panic, waiting.  She glanced up to Faramir’s face and he smiled at her as though he could sense her confusion.  Kindly, he bent to murmur with his breath warming her ear, “At meals we stand and face the West…to remember…”

Éowyn nodded, still unsure.  Remember what?  She knew little of the history of Mundburg, but she obediently stood and when the others sat, she did as well, waiting to see if any other things would be required of her.  Nothing seemed to, the Lords and Ladies beginning their repast, the sound of cutlery and conversation rising to fill the respectful void.  She looked again to the plate she shared with Faramir.

The salad was familiar: various and tender young lettuces and herbs, last autumn’s nuts, chopped new cucumbers with a coating of red wine vinegar and oil.  As for the soup, she had no idea what she was looking at and waited for him to make the first move, but he seemed terribly rattled, looking to the brown-haired girl with a furrowed brow and did not.  Her stomach rumbled.  It seemed he heard it, for he turned to her, and to all appearances, her Prince had regained his smooth courtesy.  “This is…” Faramir stopped and when he touched his spoon to the soup, he smiled and she knew he was trying to ease her discomfort, to make her laugh if he could.  “I’m not sure.”

Éowyn played along; it was easier and she was deathly hungry.  “Try it?”

He did and tasted it thoughtfully.  “Cream…of beef, onions…” Faramir took another spoonful, “Almond milk.”

“Is it good?”

“Try for yourself.”  He handed her the spoon and Éowyn took a dainty taste.  It was fair and they traded the utensil, soon finishing the soup and then beginning on the salad.  She eyed the other women surreptitiously and ate as they did: sparingly and with as much fastidiousness as she could muster.  Sharing his plate was oddly pleasant, making her wish that she could stay with him.  The feeling was strange, a melancholy longing in her heart.  But he expects a wife…and indeed, her very place so intimately at his side and sharing his food was that of a wife, not simply a betrothed.  To him I am in all but ceremony, his wife…  She felt sorrow rise to overcome her fears.  I should not have come.

The second course was served and Faramir spoke easily, tapping each dish with his knife, occasionally tasting with enough delicacy to make her smile; it was odd to see such daintiness in a man.  “Roast coney in fruit sauce; pork in wine, egg and pepper sauce; roast chickpeas in olive oil, garlic, with cloves and pepper…” 

She nodded at the last, “What is that?”

He tasted it obediently.  “Sweet and sour carrots and pears.”

Éowyn tried not to make a face.  The food of her lands was much simpler, not so seasoned or elaborate.  She had no doubt the carrots or pears would have been just as tasty alone than within a dish full of herbs or slathered in sauces.  She carefully refrained from trying them, pleading fullness—around her she could see that the Ladies only ate what seemed an impossibly tiny dab of food from their plates.  They are birds!  Éowyn wondered how they did not starve; she herself normally ate only little more but it was of heartier foods than the delicate stuff they served in the City.  She glanced down at her lap, her narrow hips, slight breasts…and I am thinner than they are. 

Looking at his handsome face, Éowyn wondered what Faramir was so attracted to, what made him wish to court and make advances on her.  The other ladies were far fuller in flesh and curves than she and no doubt would gladly take her place; she saw many that glanced to him, then her and she shared their disbelief.  Surely they are more desirable…but the Prince of Ithilien smiled to her alone, listening with half an ear to Aragorn and Imrahil’s speech of the Easterlings; he was clearly attuned to her wishes, merely waiting for one to arise.  She smiled back, tentative, and he leaned to murmur into her ear,

“Are you bored, my Lady?” 

His warm breath made her flush, thinking of the night before when he’d kissed and suckled her skin, his eagerness and her own tense, weak responses.  Éowyn was utterly surprised to feel no bitterness, to feel nothing but a thrill in the memory and nerves when he lingered to hear her reply.  He’d tainted her pleasure but briefly.  I could…she could have it again, if she wished.  I could have it for the rest of my years…could have pleasure in his touch.  His trusted touch…who else would she trust so quickly?  None came to her mind and Éowyn despaired, knowing she could not stay, must not.  I have hurt you enough…she felt guilt-ridden.  Her brother had harmed him because of her, had broken and bruised him.  Was there any more she needed to see, needed to do to him to know she was not meant for this life, this gentle man?  Why me…why do you want me…?  I am no prize among women.

Her voice was small, timid, wishing she could ask many questions of him, but unable to.  “No.”

“They speak of darker things…” Faramir sighed, then turned more fully to her, ignoring all others.  His voice was intimately soft, “I have had a splendid dream.”

She answered tensely, “I’m surprised it was not a nightmare.”

“No,” His smile was wry, then smoothed, “It held you.”

Éowyn stiffened, but she knew he would not speak of something vulgar in the hearing of others.  Relaxing, she teased, truly curious.  “I should hope this was a proper dream, my Lord.” 

His eyes twinkled at her.  “Absolutely.”  She could see the third course coming and it held a strange creation, the melding of a young pig and large hen, the skin and meat so neatly together that the dish looked to hold some inexplicable, impossible creature.  Éowyn found it more repelling than appetizing, not charmed by the impossibility, but rather put off.  There was little sense in the creation of an unrealizable creature to her mind.

“What happened in it?”

“I saw a great house in a land filled with flowers, tall grasses that stretched far and green, a sky bluer than any above us…” His hand took hers under the table, his fingers gently moving on her own.  It was a gesture of possession, tenderness.  She gazed down, catching a glimpse of their intertwined flesh, the darkness of his warrior’s hand compared to her own pale one.  Years ago she would have been darker, the sun bronzing her skin, paling her hair and years ago she’d been unafraid to leave Théoden, to leave Meduseld and venture on her own.  Éowyn swallowed, pained, realizing that she was trying to commit his soft, pleasing touch to memory.

 I will miss him…  Her question was mild, hiding her sorrow.  “And then?”

“The courtyard was a garden greater than the one that holds the White Tree…” To her amusement his voice had lowered.  When their eyes met, he grinned and she laughed, but softly. 

“Greater?”

“Yes…and I speak not just of its size or flowers or pools in which bright little fish swam or tall trees or graceful hedges…it was greater because it held you.”  Éowyn looked down again, unable to bear the delight in his face.  Faramir went on, “The walls were of pale stone, low and with many arches…it was not a fortress of war, but a house of peace.”  There was longing in his voice.

“And then?”

“You spoke to me…told me riddles.”

Éowyn laughed at him, startled.  “I’m terrible at riddles!”

“You puzzled me.”

She heard the note of truthfulness in his reply and after a few moments of silence, asked, “Was that the dream, then?”

He hesitated, “I saw children…” Éowyn looked away quickly and felt his hand tighten on hers, his flesh pleading without words.  “Two lads and a lass…all had hair just as gold as yours.  They rode ponies and raced over the hills, laughing and merry.”  His voice held a greater yearning now, bone-deep. 

She nodded only faintly, frightened by his evident cravings, his eagerness to have what he’d dreamt—it was clear in his grey eyes that beamed at her, urging her to respond in kind.  I do not wish children or a house in Gondor…  Looking up at his face again, she thought, but I would have you…  Confused by herself, Éowyn stared at her plate, dully whispering, “It does sound a good dream.”  She could not have him without the other, which was plain—his longing would goad him into achieving all his desires of home and family.

Faramir’s words confirmed her thoughts.  “I hope to have it again…to walk within it.”  His finger touched her wrist, caressing, all his caresses properly out of sight.  “In a few years…”

Éowyn did not respond, unwilling to promise again what she would not, could not give.  He watched her, waiting, but she still did not speak.  The pressure of his grey gaze was terrible now; she knew she’d only to smile in assent and he would be instantly aglow with elation.  I cannot…her eyes pricked with tears.  I shall not promise more…

In their quiet, the final course came and she was relieved to see desserts; they looked far more appealing.  Faramir identified them without prodding, in a light tone, making her ignorance a game.  “This…” He scooped up a bit, then dangled some of it from his spoon, letting the blandly colorless goo drop and squelch back onto their plate; Faramir grinned, “Is far tastier than its looks promise; it’s an almond milk and rice pudding.”  He moved to another, smiling, “This is delicious…apples fried in batter then slathered with honey.”  He nudged one of the wrinkled, shining little creations nearer to her.  “And we have cakes,” Faramir indicated the thin, delicate pastry, “of rosewater and nutmeg.”  His smile was bright, gently jesting with her.  “I promise they are better than they sound.”

Putting an answering smile on her mouth, Éowyn glanced with sadness at his profile as he bit into a light cake.  I’m sorry, I cannot be…he deserved better than she.  I wish…she carefully looked around herself, seeing the others eating, hearing them speak with cheer or sobriety of the City’s affairs, topics she was once again ignorant of.  How was she supposed to wed him when she could not even fulfill his wife’s duties?  I do not know where anything is, who anyone is; save Imrahil or Aragorn, I know nothing, no one, how can I be a fitting wife?  Her throat was closing, her chest filling with apprehension.  He deserves more…deserves a woman who knows what to do, to make him happy…who does not shrink…

 She thought for a moment she would weep, anxiety and grief overflowing her heart.  Éowyn’s hand tightened in her lap, wrinkling her skirt; the other, at Faramir’s urging, was taking a piece of the warm, sweet smelling apple.  It melted in her mouth, all softness and deliciousness.  She smiled, relaxing some.  “It is good…” The pleasure he took in her enjoyment was obvious.

The meal lingered, folk laughing up and down the long tables, servants clearing emptied dishes and serving more wine.  Imrahil was gazing at her and Éowyn wondered if she’d gotten a stain until he spoke, directing his words to Faramir, “That is Finduilas’s dress, is it not?”

Her Prince fidgeted.  “Yes.”  He hesitated, then cleared his throat, adding carefully, “I offered the use of my mother’s clothes to the Lady Éowyn…” Again he hesitated, “I felt they had stayed long enough in uselessness.”  His voice held the slightest tinge of defense, “They compliment her.”

Imrahil looked at her Prince and she saw love in his eyes, warmth and gentle reassurance.  “It was a wise and kind thought.”  Faramir relaxed minutely and the older man turned his gaze to her.  “I remember it from her youth…” He chuckled, “It is too plain for a Lady Steward and came not from this land.  Finduilas wore it long ago, when she and Denethor were newly wed and stayed in a house by the Sea where there was no court and no kingdom to impress with finery.”  The Lord of Dol Amroth smiled at her in the same gentleness, making her feel again how he reminded her of Théoden.  His fatherliness without sternness was deeply pleasant; she trusted him unthinkingly and was pleased when he added, “I agree, it suits you well, Lady Éowyn.”

“Thank you.”  She bowed her head, nodding; beside her Faramir’s face had become without expression, only a strange mash of sadness, wonder and pain in his eyes. 

Although she’d thought he’d finished, Imrahil spoke again and his words made her stiffen—it was as if he’d seen right to her heart.  “My sister was frightened of living within the City.”  He gazed at her, adding, “I received many letters, but when my first nephew came, it seemed she was more content.”  Éowyn had no reply.  He did not seem to require one, continuing in a reflective tone.  “She found the City a cold place and complained to miss the smell of the Sea.”  He smiled, lost in some old recollect, “I sent her a bottle filled with the water from our harbor, scooped with sand and shells and capped to keep in the scent.”  Imrahil grew more intent, “What shall you miss most from Rohan, Lady Éowyn?”

“I…I don’t know.”  Faramir was looking at her, as was Aragorn, but while the King’s expression was full of kindness, her Prince’s was of dread.  The brown-haired girl whose name she found difficult to remember, as it was so foreign, smiled,

“Tell us of your land.”

“There is not much to tell…” Éowyn nervously added, “It is not so grand as the City…” They were not put off and she licked her lips.  “Meduseld is our great Hall.  It is roofed in gold; there is much gold in our hills and streams.”  Meduseld itself, without the rooms built onto it, was but half the size of the Hall of Feasts, neither as broad, nor as long.  She told them so with hesitancy.  “There is more gold within, on the walls…”

“Much gold in your people.”  To her surprise, Faramir teased her, his hand briefly grasping her long braid.  The table laughed. 

“Yes…” Éowyn nodded, hands clasped in her lap, “Edoras is walled in wood…set on a hill to see over the land.”  Her eyes closed, seeing perfectly her small city, the roofs of sod or thatch with grass growing on the tops of them.  She heard the chickens in the simple courtyard, saw the tall barn, the stacks of hay that stayed in the fields, darkening and browning, small hillocks stretching far and wide to feed the herds in winter.  A lump came to her throat as she saw white fields of snow, felt the smooth pull of horses drawing sleds, heard the chiming of bells, deep laughter of her brother and her cousin.  I cannot leave…Éowyn opened her eyes and the immensity of the City and the richness of the Hall of Feasts seemed nothing at all in that moment.  Too opulent, too alien, not at all a home as she remembered Meduseld.

Imrahil smiled at her and it was gentle.  “Will you go on, Lady Éowyn?”  He gestured, “Save Elessar, none of us have had the pleasure of seeing your lands.”

The King smiled, honoring, “The Mark is fair, wild and wide, I enjoyed my time there and would have liked more.”

She gathered her strength.  “The land is open save that there are walls of stone around the fields we farm, as the horses of many Riders in Edoras roam freely.”  So that they would not think her folk were savages, she added, “Most of our herds are within the Wold, under the watchful eyes of herders.  The Snowbourn is not far and it is thinner, slower than the Great River.  I swam in it as a child.”  Her voice hitched, “It runs across our lands.”

Éowyn had to pause, homesickness making her near tears.  “My folk like songs, riddles and games very much…in the past we played often, holding many tourneys and war games for the Knights.”  She took a breath and gestured around herself.  “This is very strange to my thinking…” She touched the fork gilded with silver and found a jest, “Very rich, so that I fear to use it.”  They laughed at her with good-natured chuckles.  Imrahil’s tranquil features seemed to give support and she continued, “I used to ride in the games with my brother and cousin…”

Éowyn braced herself for a rebuke, silent or not, but there was none; the brown-haired girl seemed to take more notice.  Her name…it came to her after a second.  Lothiriel.  “King Théoden did not oppose it and I found it more pleasing than staying within our Hall…” Again she waited for a rebuke; again, none came.  “I enjoy the handling of a horse at speed…the hunt, the chase, learning to wield a blade, spear and bow.”  She smiled, feeling melancholy.  “Since the Darkness spread to the Mark, I have not been able to…Éomer forbade me from straying beyond Edoras.”

Aragorn spoke, “He was wise.”  His gaze turned to the others, “Many wargs roamed the fields of the Mark and orcs of Saruman.  The villages and fields were under constant threat…the people had no retreat like those who live outside this City.”

“Yes.”  Absently nodding, Éowyn had found what she would miss most, what she had missed for years now—the thrill of a galloping horse, the chase of a stag through a wood, the pull of a bow or heft of a spear.  Command of men, of beast, of my world…  She knew she would not experience it within the City and her heart firmed.  I must go…  She did not speak again and none prodded her.  Éowyn gazed at her lap, feeling deeply miserable.  She did not wish to hurt Faramir, finding she did not even wish to leave him, but…I will hurt him more, Éomer will hurt him with his foolish demands…what did her brother have in mind?  She didn’t know and it worried her.  Faramir is safe here, will be safe, will find a wife of worthiness who shall know his City and live the same length of years, who shall love his babes and bear his touch without fear…  Éowyn sighed inwardly, heart aching.  I wish…but she couldn’t.  Tomorrow, I will part from him.

The meal seemed over; Aragorn rose and it was a signal.  Others did too, the crowd dispersing as more servants came to clear the mess.  Éowyn rose with Faramir beside her and she felt his gaze.  “My Lady…would you stay a while longer with me?”

“Yes.”  His smile was broad and she returned it with hesitation, focusing.  I must remember…his caress, the queer but warm and gentle inflection of his voice, his courteous disposition and bearing were suddenly precious.  She would find none like to him in her lands.  Her Prince offered her his arm and led her outside the Hall of Feasts and to the walls; they were on the highest level and her head swam for a moment before the sight. 

Enchanted, yet staying a pace behind the wall, she murmured.  “It is beautiful.”  He did not seem to fear and leaned against the pale stone, giving her another sight of his long, lean form against a horizon, this time of darkness blending with his sable livery and inky hair until he was near hidden.  Only where he blocked out the stars could she see his silhouette, dark against dark.  She smiled and reached to touch the buttery soft leather; Faramir turned in surprise, in clear hopes, smiling in welcome.  Her heart skipped at his eagerness; clearly he wished for her to come closer, to touch, to act as affectionate as he did; ashamed under his smile, she only murmured what she’d meant to laugh as a jest, then explain.  “Nihthelm…”

“What does that mean?”

“Shades of night…colors of darkness…” She bit her lip, again touching his surcoat, this time under his gaze and deeply aware of it, lightly tapping his side.  “You…wearing this, standing against the sky, it made me think…”

Faramir smiled at her then seemed to notice her distance.  “Do you fear the height?”

“Yes.”

“Trust me?”  His eyes were gentle, as far as she could see.  Éowyn stepped very hesitantly to his side and his hand came, not to clasp hers, but to hold her arm just above the elbow.  His grasp gave her strange comfort, the sensation of being held, of safety as she peered over the drop.

“Look as long as you like, I won’t let you fall…” He’d taken a step closer, giving her the comfort of his mass; she leaned timidly against his body, feeling his hand over her arm, his chest against her shoulder.  Faramir shifted and she knew he was smelling her hair.  Despite her sadness and nervous contemplation of the empty space beneath her, Éowyn smiled.  When he was not testing the boundaries of her fear with caresses…her smile trembled.  He makes me feel…good.  Her heart ached.

The smoke of countless fires rose to gently haze the sight of the City stretched below and before her.  Éowyn squinted to see the faint flicker of candles through open windows.  Brighter lights from lanterns were stretched back and forth on the incline, following the road upward along the sheer slope of Minas Tirith like gold dust sprinkled upon dark velvet.  Especially glowing points were the Gates, six gems easily seen below her, the seventh slightly too near.  It was a magnificent view that she’d not bothered to take in before.  As her eyes adjusted further to the darkness, making out tiny spots of campfires on the Pelennor to torches carried by Knights that looked like ants on the roads, the largeness of the City became overwhelming.  She turned up to the stars, finding familiarity in their shapes.

Faramir answered her words though many minutes had passed while they spoke and looked out over the ledge.  “I think it is very beautiful.”  He drew closer to her and sighed against her neck, “I cannot wait until we are not parted by nightfall.”  She made no response, incredibly aware of his nearness and striving to remain as least agitated as she could.  His hand rose to touch her shoulder, to gain her attention.  When she jumped at the sudden contact, his finger turned, knuckle coming to reassuringly smooth the fragile skin of her throat.  In the dim light of the stars his face was close to hers, questioning.  “Tell me, do you like my City?” 

Éowyn swallowed and answered with care, “I do not know it.”

“Would you like to?”  He smiled, “I can escape my duties at Council for a few days…you don’t have much more time here.”

She almost laughed with despair, nodding, keeping her eyes downcast.  “I know.”  I know better than you, my dear Faramir…

“Would you like to see my City?  Walk the markets, those that have been rebuilt, and see what else has been mended?”  He sounded half-ablaze with the idea, half-melancholy in the discussion of ruins.  “I can see the Pelennor from my window and I wish to ride and view the progress tomorrow…will you not come with me?”  Faramir’s voice softened, “It is my duty as Steward to record the improvements and report to my Lord, but I would like your company, my love.”

Éowyn felt a moment’s unease when she glanced to the giant blackness of the field before the City; the mountains were invisible, making the darkness seem to stretch on forever.  She would enjoy a ride.  “I will come.”

        His response ignited a fire of guilt in her belly.  “You’ve made me very glad.”  Faramir bent, smiling, and she stiffened.  Acutely aware of her, he paused, asking very quietly, “Have I angered you?”

        “No.”  He’d done nothing, but she wished to pull back, to wean him of his caresses—it seemed that would not be possible.

        His voice softened still further, nearly inaudible, gentle, “Are you afraid?”  Faramir seemed to take in their stance, so close to the wall.  “Me or the height?”

        She shook her head, humiliated that he should have to ask.  “Not…of you…neither.”  He still held her arm.  Éowyn gave the tiniest of acknowledging gestures to his clasp.  “You have me.”

        “Then…” He bent again and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow.  Éowyn swallowed, closing her eyes, feeling how she enjoyed his soft touch, how strange it was, how unknown.  She thrilled at his nearness, his warmth, his ardor that she could sense, not in his subdued actions, but instead with the pauses he took, the almost inaudible sighs of frustration.  He kissed her cheek, his breath as warm against her skin as his mouth; she desired for a bit more, though no more than he’d done the night before.  Éowyn remembered his mouth against her throat and shivered, feeling his kiss on her cheek.  “I wish…” Faramir sighed deeply and repeated himself with a nearly imperceptible groan of longing that made a tingling rush through her limbs, “I wish…” His next words were more impatient.  “How long will I my test be, do you know?”

        She opened her eyes, confused, brought out of her near trance of peculiarly thrilling, tingling pleasure in his kiss, his nearness.  “Test?”

        There was a further note of impatience in his reply.  “Your brother’s demands.  I must fulfill them before we can wed.”  His clipped tone fairly shouted how he felt about it—anger, contempt, and the same frustrated impatience.

        His mood made her nervous, answering tensely, “I…I don’t know, my Lord.”

        “Ah, well.”  At once calmer, he smiled, lifting his broken hand for her to see.  “The pain has lessened, I hardly feel it.”

        Éowyn felt herself brighten with pride, forgetting all discomfort or sadness.  She’d done something correct and used her new knowledge.  “Truly?”

        “Yes.”  Faramir shared her smile.  She laughed, embarrassed at how he beamed downwards, how proud he looked of her, how delighted in her delight.  He offered her an arm, “May I walk you to the Houses?”

        “Yes.”

        They walked slowly, past the Gate and down a level, the night wind ruffling their hair.  Éowyn touched her borrowed gown, frowning.  “Do you wish this returned…?”

        “You may keep it, if you like it.”

        She nodded, pained and wondering if his feeling would change when she begged freedom.  I will leave it behind for him…

        At the doors, she halted and he stepped close, murmuring.  “Éowyn?”

        “Yes?”  She braced for his kiss, his touch, perhaps more amorous than even the night earlier.  They were alone now, with none to see what they did from the streets on either side of them and none visible in the lit hall of the Houses.  What shall he do?  Would he seek to touch her breast?  Make her yield to some new caress?  Anxiety rose in her throat, closing it.

        Faramir smiled down at her and his voice held soft yearning.  “Will you not kiss me, this time?  Not take some action yourself…so that I know you wish for it, desire what I desire?”

        Her mouth went dry, fear resurfacing, as well as relief that it was so simple a request.  He wanted her to kiss, wanted her to control, to give the caresses.  I don’t know what to do…she had no idea what would please him, what he would want.  Éowyn frowned, aware of her heart beating rapidly.  “I…” It wasn’t her place; he was strange to ask.

        “I will make it easy…” He was smiling, so hopeful, so earnest, bending all the way down so that she only had to lift and meet his lips.  His hair brushed her collar in teasing movements, “Please?”

***

        He could feel her anxiety; it was that strong, piercing through the shield of her foreign mind to press him.  Faramir waited and it was difficult to remain only inches from her lips, to not move.  Her pale eyes were wide, searching his before turning inward and then she rose, planting a swift and somewhat ungraceful kiss on his mouth.  It startled them both and he laughed, surprised and a bit disappointed that she’d not lingered.  Perhaps it is too soon…

        Éowyn smiled with him and even in the darkness of the lamp-lighted streets, he could see her flush, watch it spread to her throat.  Faramir came closer, smiling down and she bent her head; he could feel her embarrassment; it too was strong.  “I beg another…”

        She lifted her face, but frowned.  “C-close your eyes.”  Éowyn smiled faintly, “You…you’re staring at me.”

        “If you wish.”  Faramir regretted that he would not see her come to him.  He bent low, then closed his eyes, waiting again, not expecting much more.  But this time Éowyn touched him and his eyes almost flew open in delighted surprise. 

Her small, slim hands went to his shoulders, linked around the nape of his neck, fingers touching his bare flesh above his high-collared shirt.  She didn’t seem to know where to put her hands and kept moving them, kept adjusting her stance, a little closer, a little farther.  He waited, feeling an odd thrill of excitement, of anticipation.  She was breathing shallower, quicker, and so close that he could just feel the movement of her bosom.  It excited him still further and Faramir held himself in control with an effort.

When she rose, he jumped and they both laughed jittery laughter; his eyes slipped open, but she didn’t appear displeased.  Éowyn took a breath and rose once more, not quite making contact.  He could sense her trepidation and kept very still; his hands longed to move, to touch and cup one of the breasts that pressed and retreated in a quick, faint cadence against his surcoat, to at least wrap around her waist.  She finally kissed him and it was terribly gentle, terribly hesitant, the almost clumsy and certainly inexperienced press of her mouth to his. 

She still fears…  At once Faramir cautioned himself to take note, to not forget.  He gazed down, feeling his excitement fade to be replaced by love, by tenderness.  I will not hurt you…never, never…  Éowyn swallowed, shifted on her feet and moved her hands from being linked about the nape of his neck to his shoulders and came up for another brief kiss, pleasing him.  Never, never…

“What?”

When she drew back to frown, he became aware that he was whispering it aloud.  “I would never hurt you.”

“I…know.”  Her reply was weak, faintly voiced, not meeting his gaze.

Faramir paused, then asked a question, seeking knowledge that might aid him in his purpose.  “Have you kissed others?”

Éowyn’s pale eyes slid further away and her voice became even fainter; he felt her withdraw both mentally and physically, her feet moving a fraction to open a bit of space between them.  “Some.”

“Men?”

He could sense a thread of a lie within her words, a moment of strong emotions, repulsion and fear repressed, hidden away so that he could not feel even a hint of them and once more had to rely upon her features, the language of her body to tell her mood.  She smiled a little.  “Lads, long ago.”

Faramir was jealous and scoffed at himself even as he asked.  “How many?”

“One, two…” Éowyn looked at him.  “Only curiosity, I held no desire or interest.”  Her smile vanished and she bent her head.  “I was to be a warrior, not a Lady.”

Faramir teased, “It seems to me you are both.”

His words displeased her somehow and she was stiff.  “No.”

        To distract her, to prolong his stay, he asked, “What were their names, the favored lads?”

        Éowyn frowned.  “I can’t remember.”  She licked her lips, meekly asking, “And you?”

        “Three Ladies and…” Faramir kissed her brow, her cheek, his hand to her jaw, teasing, “An wondrously lovely enchantress.”

She spoke as if he were very foolish, shaking her head.  “I am no…”

“No?  Not even if you have hair of purest gold that shines like the Sun has come down to grace me with her light?  Skin of some extraordinary union of rare ivory and sweet silk?  Eyes like precious jewels, wells of clear water reflecting the sky…?”  Laughing, she ducked her head and withdrew, obviously embarrassed.  He pursued, taking a step forward and gazing down her body though it was well sheathed in the gown.  “A shape to stir any…curved as the Great River…” Faramir allowed his fingers to trace up and down the dip of her waist, restraining himself to the fairly proper territory of the uppermost curve of her hip and halting well below the loftier slope of her bosom.

Éowyn protested, but a secret smile rode her lips; she was clearly pleased with his flattery, if fighting self-consciousness.  “No…”

He lowered to murmur into the cup of her ear, nearly laughing at his foolish recital, “I desire to be a fish, to swim within your cove, dive and wriggle,” She burst into red-faced laughter and instantly put a hand to her mouth, looking mortified as he continued, grinning.  “Delight in its warmth until I’m wearied, then lie to bask on your shore…” She laughed as Faramir kissed her throat, hunger rising swiftly, making him wish intensely that he’d pushed for a wedding before her brother had had chance to arrive in the City.  Her laughter fading, Éowyn softened against him, her curves melding just the slightest bit to his front, encouraging, willing. 

“Oh…” Her voice was a breath, a spot of heat to further prompt his appetite.  She liked what he did, that was clear.  Faramir kissed both sides of her throat, carefully not suckling to leave marks; the last thing he needed was to break the delicate truce he’d struck with Éomer.  When he lifted his head, she was flushed, eyes wide. 

“Do you like…?”  Say it, say that you do, speak to me…

Éowyn nodded, smiling nervously in her fashion, but that nervousness had changed.  She did not feel tense, but rather jittery, the same ticklishness that filled him, fueled his desire. 

He felt his own nervousness in commanding her, rough-voiced with excitability, “Speak it.”

“I like it…that…” She took a deep breath and Faramir leaned to kiss her cheek, enjoying its softness, its warmth.  Like a peach in the sun, he marveled as he trailed kisses to her ear, nuzzling, taking the opportunity to step nearer.  He heard her laugh, “That, Faramir.”  Like the previous night she’d relaxed some, no longer so stiff and afraid.  He pulled her closer, holding her tightly.  It was the wrong move; in the confinement of his arms, she stiffened immediately.

“Stop…!”  She put her hands to his chest, but did not shove; like when she’d lifted to him, it was another tiny step in gaining courage and easement.  He felt delighted by her meager trust and in realizing that he could feel her trust.  It was there, faint, so faint, glowing among the foreignness of her mind like the lights of his City did within the dark night.

However, it was time for him to leave and he knew it.  Faramir consoled himself with the thought that one day he would not have to and bowed from the waist.  “Sleep well, my Lady, my love.”

Éowyn was flushed, some hair slipped from her neat braid to give her a wispy halo.  She looked lovely, not quite meeting his eyes, shy but smiling, answering with a little laugh.  “And you, Faramir.”

        “I ride in the morn…shall I meet you by the first level stables?”

        “Yes.”

        He bowed a final time and watched her walk into the dim corridor, watching until she was out of sight.

***

        The day was fair, sunny and bright.  She felt merry and tried to squash it, forcibly reminding herself of her task.  I must break with him…stand firm…not yield to his words.  It would be terribly difficult; her heart was not in it, confusing her.  I must…  Her boots were still dusty and the dirt fell in gritty clumps as she descended, slipping through the Gates without a word; the guards knew her by sight and, with smooth bows and ceremonial greetings, “Lady of Rohan,” opened the barriers so that she did not even have to slow.  Éowyn smiled at them uncertainly, nodding briefly in acknowledgment of their courtesy.  Do they think of me as their Lady…?  She was disturbed by the readiness of so many to accept her, finding that she did not trust it.  It is strange, as though they wish a Lady again…the words of the healer came back and she thought more cryptically…or merely an heir.

Her eyes lifted as she passed through the second Gate; Éowyn stopped in the street and gazed ahead, chest tightening in nervousness, spirits lifting in gladness.  Both arising at the sight of her Prince, the emotions mixed badly, making her duck her head at once and tuck back a sheaf of her loosely lying hair, unsure of herself.  Must I?  Again, she gazed ahead at the man that awaited her.  His hair shone ebony; he was very tall even among others, lean with long-shanks, and his features were noble, patient, caring.

Éowyn reminded herself of how many times she’d seen his face blanch with hurt at her words, her actions.  I must…

But…his generosity made her sigh, wishing as he handed out coins, smiling and speaking with common folk that he had no obligation to acknowledge.  I wish I were a proper woman…

Faramir stood before her in the street, his livery dark under the bright sun, the White Tree on his chest shining luminescent.  He was surrounded by folk of common blood and ragged clothing, both male and female, children and elders, handing out coins to the children with a gentle smile and listening to the laudations of several women with patience.  They looked to be the mothers of the children and a lump was suddenly in Éowyn’s throat as he slipped a few more coins into the protesting hand of a young man.  The man bowed low, heartily vowing service and Faramir turned, pointing to the roofs of the stables.  The man quickly nodded again and trotted away with a light step to fulfill whatever duty he’d promised.

When she approached, he turned and his smile was no longer quiet and somberly restrained, but welcoming.  Briefly turning back to the folk around him, Faramir spoke, giving farewells, gentle vows of aid.  His strides to meet her were brisk; he was smiling as he greeted in a perfectly proper, albeit very enthusiastic fashion, “My Lady.” 

She followed his example, uneasy at how her lips wanted to form a smile in return.  “My Lord.”

Faramir glanced to the dispersing people and his enthusiasm melted to quiet despondency.  He was mute for a long moment before saying softly, slowly, “My City…my people, need help.”

Éowyn gazed at him, silent.

“I asked them of their condition…where they slept, what they ate, if they had enough blankets, clothing…” He sighed, “Many answered with shame that they slept in the barns, in the back rooms of inns, in alcoves in alleys.”  He bowed his head, dark hair falling around his face, but she could see his expression—it held anguish.  “I asked them to tell me, what could I do…what was needed most.”  Faramir glanced at her with sudden intensity.  “What do you judge the folk on this level need?”

“I don’t know…” She looked about, focusing on the broken stone and wood of shattered buildings.  Other than a few large and purposeful structures, the majority of the first level seemed to hold the thatched-roofed houses of peasants.  There were many outlines of soot, cleared spaces within which had been rooms, the charred remains of stools, beds, blackened pieces of metal.  Even now people sifted through them for useful materials or belongings and she felt pity.  The carts full of supplies went by, steadily carrying fresh trimmed logs still shiny with sap, cut and dusty stone, long slabs of green sod for roofs.  Bundles of firewood, casks of ale or wine, sacks of young, edible wild greens and baskets of eggs packed in straw did not halt on the streets.  Instead, sweating horses and oxen carried their loads upward to the houses of the highborn nobles, the wealthy merchants.  She saw squawking chickens in cages, goats and sheep walking on long leads, rabbits swinging from a pole gutted and ready for cleaning, nets of still dripping fish, limp ducks, slabs of butchered cattle…and forced herself to think not of Edoras with its few hundred, but Minas Tirith with its thousands. 

He smiled and answered, but it was bittersweet.  “Neither do I.”  Faramir’s face was crossed with rare anxiousness.  “And it is my duty.”  His voice lowered, becoming saddened, “My responsibility…to my Lord Elessar, to my people, to my City.”  Her Prince turned, asking, almost pleading, “What shall I do?”

        Éowyn offered hesitantly, “Some homes have not yet been rebuilt…” The rubble had barely been cleared save from the streets themselves; plainly it was the upper levels that saw the first of the repairs as well as the best of the foods and care.  The Citadel, she remembered, lifting her eyes to peer all the way up to the radiant White Tower, was all but new again.

        “And?”

        “Food, drink, a roof…” Éowyn frowned and recalled the orphaned children in the Houses.  Not all had been injured; perhaps they simply stayed and would eventually be taught the skills of the healers.  She looked around herself, uncertain.  Although the lowest level was still in need of repairs, she did not know exactly what was needed first or where.  “This is not my City.”  Éowyn bit her lip, wishing she could aid him, as he appeared unusually distressed.  “I don’t know…”

        Faramir sighed deeply and reached for her hand as he repeated himself in a soft, discouraged voice.  “Neither do I.”  He held her hand as he called for horses, asking courteously if she preferred the chestnut or would try another.  Éowyn tried to ignore the soft warmth of his hand clasped to hers, requesting the spirited chestnut again.  Her Prince only released her when her mount came; Éowyn swung into the saddle, picking up her reins and glancing down at him—she was surprised to find that he was looking at her, his expression solemn.  Turning away to her horse’s orangish mane, remembering his name, Flame, she couldn’t keep her eyes downward and had to look at him again. 

His eyes were still on her, full of love, of some gravity that she didn’t understand.  There was something needy in his gaze, something that called to her, soul-deep, silent and touching and foreign.  Without thinking, she extended her hand and he took it again, kissing the back and squeezing it with a fragile smile.  Éowyn felt fear, knowing she’d liked his kiss to her hand, liked the faint pressure of his fingers to her own, liked how he’d looked at her a moment before…like no man has, need, a need without ardor…what is that?  She glanced away, quickly, hearing the clop of approaching hooves on stone.  He let her go to mount his horse and she swallowed.  I must…she didn’t want to at all.