As he rode at her side, Faramir’s bay charger arched its ruddy neck like it was proud to bear him through the barrier and away from the crowded road and into the Pelennor.  At the gap where the Gate had stood, a man in the livery of the Tower Guard came to meet them; he was mounted, too, and bearing the argent standard of the Steward on a tall silver-gilt pole.  Éowyn frowned.  Who is that? 

Nervous at the addition of an unknown man, she glanced at him before he fell behind their horses, but the snowy pennon flapped, catching her eye.  Made of rich silk and extravagantly large, it was a shimmering, luxurious symbol that boasted of the Prince of Ithilien’s passage, along with his sovereignty and wealth.  To distract herself, Éowyn studied the banner, wondering at its plainness—snow-white, with no designs.  Her Prince was no braggart, but had all of his kin been so pure and noble?  She turned her eyes back to the soldier again.

He rode with straight, proud carriage yet clearly was not very comfortable in the saddle.  She eyed his loose legs, his slightly slumped seat and imagined that he was trained as a footman, not as a mounted Knight at all.  The blazing silver pole was secured at his stirrup and he bumped it every now and then, unused to carrying it.  Perhaps he was new to the station, as well.  Many men died…many others had had to take the emptied places.  His features were vaguely familiar and now she remembered seeing him several times in the City.  A guard is all…perhaps the Captain…that made sense, that he would be richly attired and trusted to bear Faramir’s emblem. If he were the Captain of her Prince’s guard, then he would seek to watch over her as well, if only to safeguard his Lord’s treasured, future mistress. 

I have nothing to fear…of course she didn’t, this was the City and the darkness had long passed, she did not have to assess the threat and loyalties of every man around her.  Look, his eyes hold no shadow!  She scolded herself, reminding, there is nothing to fear, nothing to guard against…

Putting her nerves aside, Éowyn gazed at the long field of war; it would be no more than meager pasture if compared with the rich ranges of her land.  Her gaze fell and before her horse’s feet were the tracks of innumerable hooves.  She stared at the cupped, dusty marks.  They’d gone early this morn; she’d heard the booming, deeply toned horns as all the Riders and Knights of her people galloped back along the Western road.  She wished them well, glancing to the horizon and hoping they returned to find Edoras in better fare than the City.  I wish I had ridden…the remembered sight of the Golden Hall was enough to move her to tears.

 Lifting further, Éowyn’s eyes roamed far, studying the field before her in more detail.  Pelennor was still browned, still churned from battle.  As they rode along a small dirt road, she saw carts filled with broken weaponry, ruined armor, bolts that had missed their targets and strewn the ground, countless things that had not been burned in the fires or taken with the corpses of the fallen.  There were massive bones, charred and cracked, from where the carcasses of the mûmakil had lain and been later burned into ashes rather than hewn or buried; she looked at the blackened earth and swallowed, fighting memories.  Dark…it was so dark…it had been as twilight at dawn, an endless twilight that promised no break of happy day.  So dark…

But everything had changed—the sun shone now, the grass or crops were green and growing wherever fires or thundering hordes of men and beasts hadn’t destroyed the ground.  Stray dogs scuffed in the ashes, looking for food, men moved back and forth, renewing the best they could.  To distract herself, Éowyn spoke, her voice rough and strained, “What…is it…that we are doing…my Lord?” 

The guard’s presence made her more conscious of her speech and bearing.  What did he think of his Lord’s betrothed in coarse men’s clothing?  She snuck a glance, but the guard’s face was imperturbable, eyes scanning the road ahead, the land about them for danger, as was proper.

“I wish to see how many fields are planted, how many more that will be thought to be cleared and plowed before it is too late to set crops in them.”  Faramir checked his mount, gazing at her in concern.  “Are you well, Éowyn?  Your face had gone pale.”

“I am…well.”  She bit her lip, unable to look away from the high, grassy mound of the fallen, both Rohirrim and of the City; it bore no white evermind and the lack pressed her.  My kinsmen lie beneath plain grass…  “It is just…I remember…” Her eyes strayed of their own accord to the dark, dead mound of the foul creature she’d slain.  So dark…it had been like riding in a terrible dream, a dream that had lasted for years.  She choked, looking down at her hands.

He followed her gaze.  Faramir drew his horse closer, reaching to take her hand—he took the chill one, as if by instinct, and his touch warmed her at once.  Full of condolence, he asked, “What was it like?”

A cloud passed over the sun as she answered, watching its shadow creep over the earth, “Terrible.”

Her Prince murmured, able palm covering her hand, warming it; his fingers laced with hers, making her aware of his comforting grip.  “Were you afraid?”

“Some…no, it was too quick for real fear.”  Stammering, she glanced to the guard, but he’d turned away, giving them privacy.  His dark horse, bridled and saddled in the sable and silver garb of the City, watched with pricked ears and made her smile at its curiosity.

Faramir sounded bewildered.  “You fear me more…?”  His hand tightened on hers, drawing her attention back to him at once.  Grey eyes fixed to hers, his voice lowered to ask, “How can that be?  I don’t understand how I rate more fear than a creature…a thing that froze my blood.”  Éowyn looked down, ashamed.  He squeezed her hand again and she peeped at him through her lashes.  Faramir gazed at her in the same open confusion that he often did, the sun bright on his dark hair and raven livery, making the White Tree gleam.  His reins drooped and his splinted hand lay in his lap; he’d abandoned his mount to hold to her.  When he spoke again, it was a mere whisper, pleading, “Speak to me, please…unburden yourself…”

Éowyn felt the intimacy of their words; the closeness of him, a closeness that she could not push away as easily as she pushed his body; his familiarity sparked tension, making her reply clipped.  She straightened her shoulders, answering with the blunt courage of a warrior, the warrior she’d briefly been, and on this very field.  “I felt not fear, but vengeance.  I killed it to repay in kind the loss of my blood, my kin.  You would have done likewise, my Lord.”

Faramir did not answer, simply squeezed her hand once more.  He looked ahead at the tiny dots of men and oxen plowing tracts of land and sighed, then asked courteously, “Does it trouble you to go on?  I will have Beregond accompany you back to the Gate…” He faltered and she looked at him, seeing a rare moment of doubt; Éowyn understood.  There was no Gate but to him it still remained, if only in memory.  Her Prince smoothly recovered, “To the stables, if you wish.”

   She gazed ahead to the small figures of working men and women.  Is this a thing the Lady of Ithilien would do?  She had no idea, but thought it was the thing of a wife to accompany her husband on his duties if he wished it so.  Éowyn shook her head, feeling ill.  She would not be a wife to him if she had her way.  “No, I will go on.”  Faramir’s bright smile proved what she’d guessed—he wished her company, and in full heart; she smiled in timid return and they began to jog their horses down the crude path, steering carefully away from the carts of wreckage or goods.

A wind came, raising a pale curtain of ash and dust.  In it, the snowy pennon flapped wildly, silk cracking and spooking her chestnut.  He bolted ahead and she rose in the stirrups, feeling the weakness of her legs and murmuring.  “Líeg…gá eaðe, min eoh…” His small fire-colored ears flicked back, listening to her comforting tone, her quiet self-assuredness and she felt his tightly drawn frame relax.  Halting to wait until the others had caught up, the chestnut dipped his head, chewing his bit and keeping a watchful ear on the flop and whisper of the approaching standard.  She stroked his neck, giving him free rein to sidestep and snort at the flapping emblem; a tight hold would only make him more anxious.  Luckily, the guard was attentive and gave extra ground.  Éowyn smiled at the man and he nodded once in reply.

Faramir looked at her closely and opened his mouth; she could see him beginning to ask if she were well, then to her relief, he smothered the slightly insulting question.  Instead, he now appeared curious, “What did you say to him?”

“I told him to go easily.”  Éowyn could see him running the words through his mind, then her Prince smiled and urged,

“I would like more lessons.”

“If it pleases you.”  She sighed.  They are useless lessons, my dear Faramir, you will not have endure an journey to my lands…  She forced a smile and touched Flame’s withers.  “Eoh.  Horse.  Mearh, too, is the word for horse.”  Éowyn began to gesture around them, making Faramir crane his neck in a way that amused her.  She pointed first to the guard, “Esne, servant.  Ond gehola, protector.”  The man’s face was still impassive, though she thought she saw a flicker of amusement.  Going farther, she added, “Ierðling, plough man.  Æcer, field.  Horh, dirt.  Rodor, sky…” She went on and on, pointing, dutifully repeating herself at times while Faramir echoed each word in a comically garbled imitation.  Hand to her mouth to contain her impolite laughter, Éowyn could see some of the small, growing plants and began to identify them.  “Bere, barley.  Ryge, rye…”

Finally, they reached the first men near to the road and she murmured, “Fana, banner.  Hordere, Steward.  Hlaford, Lord.  Cyne, King.  Hláforddóm, lordship.”  Éowyn ended with a grand gesture that encompassed all they saw.  “Cynedóm, kingdom.”

“Ná.”  To her surprise, Faramir smiled at her and stretched his able arm to point across the Great River to the green, sloping country that lay there. 

Ithilien…her eyes followed his movement and she marveled for the land seemed impossibly verdant and stirring by the distance, nothing at all akin to the ruin in which she rode.  It shone richly emerald, the sun and clouds giving it giant splotches of light and gloom; the Anduin gleamed brilliantly as a border and though she strained, she could not see the darkness of the Black Lands beyond the hills.  Has it been so healed?  She would have to look again from the City walls.  Éowyn turned back to see Faramir smiling gently at her.  His expression was hopeful, so deeply so that she felt a pang of shame and grief and looked away.

Though his accent had improved simply by listening to her, it was still purely awful, marred by his naturally exotic intonation.  “Min c-cynedó-m.  Cynedóm.”  He faltered, then added very carefully and a bit roughly, “Mid me…wíf.”  Her Prince beamed.

Because he was gazing at her so intently, Éowyn nodded assent but could not bring herself to say more than a whispered, “Gea.”

His smile had warmed, unable to yet hear the tones of uncertainty through her native tongue.  “Gea.”  Faramir reached to touch her arm and she looked down, feeling the light pressure of his hand, the warmth of it through her plain woolen shirt, the thing it expected.  He wished her smile; he wished her eager agreement. 

I cannot give…she did not lift her head and he pulled away as a man came, dusty from work in the fields, to bow and ask what his Lord needed.  Éowyn glanced up and caught the guard looking at her; his expression had cooled and was, she thought, displeased before he caught himself and his features smoothed back into impassivity. 

She stiffened, angered.  All of what they’d said was between Faramir and her, and it was none of this…serving man’s business what she did or did not do.  As her eyes narrowed, the guard glanced at her again.  His face was impassive at first, then became politely and mutely questioning, asking if she needed anything.  Éowyn could not help a feeling of brief shame, which angered her more so that she fumed in silence, glowering at the hard-beaten dirt of the road. 

Faramir was speaking, but he’d dismounted, greeting the man who’d come as an equal.  She smiled, captivated—he was terribly handsome, leaning against his horse’s side, one arm thrown casually over the saddle, handsome and irresistibly charming despite the bruises still liberally spread over face and throat.  As they watched, he asked the laborer his name, then how his day had gone and remarked upon the fair weather, all the while seeming to pay the common man’s simple, stuttering words the greatest and most courteous of attention.  Finally, her Prince got to what he’d wished to know, inquiring with a smile, “Can you show me what fields are sown?  I must give an account to Lord Elessar.” 

“Yes…yes, I can, m’ Lord.  I can take you.”  Faramir remounted, awkward with his hand, and the man walked beside their horses, directing them among many lanes that crossed the Pelennor.  She looked about herself, finding little interest in hearing the man’s praises of Aragorn and her Prince.  Faramir’s gracious, though slightly uncomfortable smile and the guard’s small, very heartfelt nods of agreement were amusing, but she soon devoted her attention once more to the Pelennor.

One side of their road might be green and plowed into ordered rows of crops while the other still charred and rough, the land was a patchwork of growth and destruction.  Éowyn kept her eyes trained upon the neatly sown fields, the young crops and the men and beasts that farmed them.  It was not so different from her home, less oxen than her folk used—only the poorest of horses were given the banal duty of pulling a plow.  The great heavy-boned drafts might do so, but they were bred so and it was no shame to them, but a pride to pull the greatest load or plow the hardest clay.  To any other finely blooded and bred horse it was a shame to toil; her horses were like to her folk. 

My folk…  She stroked Flame’s arched neck, comforting him as the standard waved again, the fabric fluttering and popping.  The wind was strong here, just like about Edoras, which gave her a false sense of home when she closed her eyes.  Saddle leather creaked, horses hooves thudded; she smelled grass, manure…soot, a stench of it.  The illusion had been terribly real.  When Éowyn opened her eyes and saw where she was, she nearly sobbed in longing. 

Faramir looked to her at once, though to her knowing she’d not made a sound to alert him.  His grey eyes inquired gently, brow furrowed.  She shook her head and they went on, her Prince murmuring fields and crops under his breath, counting and almost sounding like he were arguing with himself.  When they’d reached the last cultivated plot, so far beyond the City that the giant capital was but a shining toy, even Éowyn could see that only half the fields had been sown.  She frowned and dared to speak.  “Are all others ruined for this year?”

The man looked pained.  “Yes, my Lady.”  He nodded to the scorched expanse.  “The ground is burned.”  Éowyn nearly snorted.  She could see that.  The man continued humbly, “We tried again ‘n again, but nothin’ would come up.”

“Thank you.”  Faramir sighed and slumped, deviating from his normally erect posture, his chin briefly dropping to his chest in defeat before he rallied enough to nod to the man and smile, “Thank you kindly, I’ve no further need of service.”

But…when the fires came in her lands, the soil was always better.  Éowyn didn’t understand, wondering if they had no fires in Gondor.  Could the flesh of orcs and Southrons ruin the earth?  She highly doubted it; every dark patch but the ground over the foul winged creature’s mound seemed normal, simply burned dry and bare.  Pelennor was only half ruined now, slowly returning to itself.  Many of the deep trenches had been stripped of the orcs’ foul machinery and refilled, almost all of the deceased had been buried and the common folk worked dawn till nightfall to renew and plant their crops, aided by widowed women and fatherless boys.  Many, many people worked hard and she could see the difference, which made her marvel all the more that the burnt soil would not be labored over and made to bear.  She scanned the Pelennor, noting how much land was unused.  There will not be enough of a harvest…will my folk be called upon to share the burden?

Éowyn frowned, leaning sideways to peer at the blackened soil, then, obeying an impulse, dismounted to kick the earth.  She was conscious of the men staring at her, but ignored them; men had stared at her before and these three were far less menacing.  The heel of her boot stirred dead ashes; the pure white of entirely burned things, then darker grey mixed with chunks that she did not wish to identify, but none of it was what she was looking for.  “Have you plowed in other fields like this?”

“Yes…”

“And the seed did not rise?”

The man looked to Faramir, who nodded encouragingly, then answered, “No, my Lady.”

I am weak!  Her legs were disturbingly powerless, making it hard to really dig into the earth.  Éowyn felt frail, lighter than air and, for a moment, chilled all over.  The awful, idle years of waiting upon her ailing uncle had taken a toll, along with her battle with the wraith and its mount.  She moved a few feet, then dug a second time with her boot but found only thin, crumbling clay that would hardly grow crops.  Éowyn continued, determined to ignore all sensations of frailty, speaking strongly.  “Have you plowed them again?”

“No.”  He hesitated, admitting, “We’ve had to eat most of the seed as boiled meal, my Lady, or feed it to the stock.”  Though the man’s tone had not been accusing, Faramir straightened in his saddle like he’d been struck by a quirt.

“I understand.”  They could not afford to waste any grain on replanting dead fields.  Éowyn went on kicking, digging her heel in deep to find the good earth she knew had to lie beneath the layers of ashes, burned crops, homes, flesh, inferior soil.  She spied some fragments of bones and shuddered, moving again, ashes already greying her boots and the legs of her trousers.

Many fires had been started to burn the dead creatures—mûmakil, wargs, horses possessed by Southrons—then run out of control, singeing or blackening tracts of land otherwise untouched.  Pelennor had been farmland, divided into plots either tilled or grazed by stock before the battle, neatly girdled with wide lanes for troops to ride down, carefully maintained roads crossing its expanse.  Faramir had spoken of it as he’d courted her in the gardens, remarking upon the orchards, the tracts of fluttering grain that browned and bowed their seed-heavy heads.  Looking around herself, she could still see remnants of what he’d described in the barely cleared roads, but the long field was utterly ravaged, only a poor echo of her Prince’s boast of ancient order and beauty.  Éowyn returned to her task, still determined.

“Ah.”  She was flushed with exertion, smiling in triumph.  “Here.”  Bending, she held up a worm, careful not to pinch the tender, valuable creature before putting it back into its earthen home.  “The ashes are deep, but they do not go all the way down, the ground is badly stirred up from the battle…” Éowyn pointed to some of the light-colored and crumbly dirt.  “Without the shade of grass, it’s dried to grit, where nothing can grow,” Under this broiling Southern sun!  “And it will take time to renew, many rains to wet it and dissolve the…things within it…” The remains.  She swallowed, “But beneath there is still enough moisture.”  She shook soot and good, dark brown, fertile dirt from her hands.  “Find a plow with a longer tine, then plow low again, twice, even trice if you have to, to get enough fertile soil, then plant what you will not have to eat.  The horses will have pasture enough in another month…” Éowyn closed her eyes, remembering her country, the talking of her Uncle and Théodred, Elfhelm, farmers, “When it rains, the grass will come again and in a month it will be long and thick enough for stock without fear of overgrazing.”  She added, “My folk are sending wagons loaded with supplies within that time.”  She brushed the last of the sticky ashes and grit from her fingers, feeling a surge of well being, of confidence.  It had been long since she’d given any counsel besides that pertaining to Théoden’s meal, his clothing, or the work of women: weaving, cooking, or upkeep of the Golden Hall.  “Take that into thought when you decide what is needed.”

“Yes, my Lady.”  His deferential reply startled her and she became aware that she’d given a command, nay, several, in a land that was not hers.  Éowyn felt a heat that had little to do with exertion grow in her face.  

She took a breath, acutely aware of Faramir’s motionless silence.  What will he say…?  Would there be reproach for overstepping herself?  Éowyn’s heart sped up and she forced herself to glance upward to Faramir, mindful of the guard’s impassive stare.  “I…meant…if that is your will, my Lord.”

“Your Lady is wise.”  His smiling pronouncement was clearly not a rebuke, her Prince’s tone warming with affection so that each word was more approving than the first.  She looked up again, startled.  He was not displeased at all. 

He is…pleased.  And at once she knew why—I have taken initiative, given orders as would a ruling Lady …and under his cause, given wisdom and sound advice to aid him…she’d done exactly what would delight Faramir and what would lead him in thinking that she was embracing her future role…  I am cruel.  Éowyn dropped her eyes, guilty.  I do not mean to be!  She’d meant only to help.

He smiled at their guide, commanding gently, “And she has spoken.  Do as she bids.”  Éowyn snuck another glance upward.  He beamed at her, the early morning sun behind him, glowing off his rich, silver adornments—bright thread work on his saddle, his bridle; the clasps on both were like silver wings; the sides of his stirrups were elaborately engraved.  Despite these touches of silver light about him, his face was in shadow, making it seem like some odd, benevolent apparition had arisen to speak with her in the voice of a paramour.

“Aye, Lord Faramir.”  He bowed low, offering to show them the easiest way out of the maze of small cart roads that crossed over the Pelennor.  Her Prince declined with a smile and turned to look down at her from his place in the saddle. 

“I fear I cannot give you an obliging hand…”

Because of my brother…  Feeling herself tensing, Éowyn gathered her reins, briskly answering as she put boot to stirrup and swung onto the chestnut.  “I need none.”

“I know…” Faramir nodded as though he were eager to please her.  He sounded wistful.  “But I would have liked to offer.”  She saw no point and merely awaited his next command, which came quickly and puzzled her.  “Beregond?”

“My Lord?”

“You are released for the moment…” He smiled, “My Captain.”  The guard blinked and Faramir added, “There will be a young man waiting at the stables, listen to what he has to say and if I do not meet you there, recount it for me this afternoon after the midday meal.  I will be in the Tower.”

“Aye, my Lord.”  Beregond’s frown showed that Faramir’s actions were strange, but he obeyed and rode swiftly away.  Éowyn said nothing, her nervousness returning now that they were left alone.  Under her, Flame quieted with the absence of the fluttering standard.  She took refuge in watching his brown eyes quicken in eagerness as he looked from open path to open path, wishing to run down them.  She patted his neck, feeling the same desire to lose herself in animal speed, to taste the wind.

“Éowyn?”  He said her name suddenly, startling her. 

“My Lord?”

His usually guileless countenance became pained, her Prince’s mouth instantly tightening, his warm eyes blanching, then fluttering shut in a moment that bespoke of gathering patience: all showed that he did not enjoy her respect.  Faramir grimaced, exhaling before stating carefully, “Please, do not call me that…if you must, do it before Court and others, but never when we are alone.”

She hesitated, then asked faintly, “Why?”  Éowyn knew why and it made her chest ache.  Do you think you love me so much, dear Faramir, good Faramir? 

“I am not your Lord…I am your betrothed.”  He frowned and sounded frustrated, raw, his normally mellow voice turned rough with impatience, “Have you no gentler name for me?”

Éowyn stiffened, sensing his desire for intimacy yet again.  Her chest tightened as he steered his horse nearer and she replied only coolly, heart beating faster.  “I told you, I am not gentle.”

“No, your hand has not been…” Grinning crookedly, Faramir put his palm to his chest with a show of bravado evidently meant to soothe her.  “I’ve bruises.”  He leaned closer and sobered, murmuring into the space between their horses, “But your tongue has, my love…” Eyes alight with impishness, he was smiling, teasing her in a bold fashion.  Relaxing almost against her will, Éowyn resisted the urge to smile too, embarrassed and pleased with his obvious pleasure.  He finished lightly, expectantly, “And I do not expect your hand to name me.”

“I know of no names…” She was aware of her mount’s impatience; he pawed and shifted his feet, eager to move, to run.  For a moment Éowyn thought of allowing him, then pretending she’d merely lost control—it would certainly get her away from her devoted Prince’s attempts at closeness.  His constant attempts…will he give me no rest?

“What of…love?  My Love?”  Faramir had nudged his horse nearer to hers; they sat in the saddle as if they were facing one another upon the ground.  She stared down at Flame’s orange mane, flustered by his insistence.  “My Dearest, my Dear, my Sweet One?”  The last made her laugh nervously, thinking she would never say it in all the years of her life.  He was encouraged, giving more, “My Heart?  My Beloved…?”

Éowyn could hold back her laughter no longer, crying, “I will say none of those!”

He leaned forward, intrigued, fondly smiling.  “Why not?”

She flushed and looked away, muttering, “They are…foolish.”

Screwing up his face, he protested in a drawn-out appeal, making her laugh again, “Noo…”

“Yes.”  Her fingers played with her reins, nervous even with her brightening heart.  Her Prince was strange, so light and merry, jesting to lift her spirits even if it made a fool out him.  She smiled, feeling the warmth of affection gather in her chest.

Faramir stared at her, his grey eyes narrowed.  Finally, he declared with much passion, “If love and the names of it are foolish, then I am as well!”

Éowyn laughed, looking at him and the determined set of his features; under the bruises, she could see his mirth.  She smiled, then shook her head, agreeing more docilely.  “Then you are.”  Unable to resist, she felt her smile widen as she named him, “My Fool.”  The fondness that coursed through her was unfamiliar, but pleasant.  It was also painful; I must remember…he was precious to her now. 

Faramir bowed from the waist in acknowledgement, the best he could do on horseback.  His smile was gentle, not at all objecting.  “My Love.”  Éowyn stared at him, sensing his sudden desire—his eyes softened again, as they always did, and he fell quiet.  When he leaned forward to kiss her, holding himself at an angle over empty space, the space she must also cross if they were to meet, she hesitated.

I do not wish to encourage…

I will not be cruel again! 

As she sat, motionless and divided, he perceived that she would not move.  His darkening expression, the immediate and entirely unconscious flash of hurt that came over him settled her inner debate.

It would be crueler not… 

***

He’d nearly sunk back into the saddle, defeated and terribly saddened, but her outstretched hand froze him in the act.  Éowyn smiled at him, shakily, tensely, and leaned forward; her eyes were wide, flicking away and back again like flighty birds.  His heart thudding in eagerness, Faramir stretched, putting his weight in his stirrups and wrapping his able hand in his horse’s mane.  Carefully, he met her and they kissed, only lightly and a bit awkwardly at the angle, though he tried to keep her as long as he could, enjoying the soft, tentative way she kissed him, so unpracticed, yet trying to please him and herself.  “Oh…” With an indrawn breath of dismay, she wavered, her balance failing, and he grasped her timid hand, completing its half-rise to put it to his shoulder.  Faramir chuckled under his breath; acting as a prop of sorts was perfectly honorable duty while kissing her.  Éowyn smiled at once against his mouth, making his spirits rise. 

“Easy…” Hearing his voice made rougher with desire, Faramir lifted his only able hand, cupping the nape of her neck, careful, so careful not to exert any pressure—she would retreat the instant he did so.  Her pretty pale eyes searched his, and then her horse came closer, moving to release the strain of supporting her canted form.  It made it easier, so that he took more time to coax her into parting her soft, rubicund lips for him.  After her first adamant refusal—she actually pulled away with a faint gasp of surprised indignation—he paused to gaze at her and smile in supplication. 

Éowyn stared back, a trace of a smile rising.  Her cheeks had flushed a bit and her eyes were heavy-lidded, bosom moving quicker under the floppy men’s shirt, all signs that she was stirred from their chaste kisses.  Reaching again, delighted when she met him without retreat, Faramir admitted that his were striving to become less innocent.  Yet Éowyn steadfastly refused his coaxing, though he could at least tell she enjoyed his efforts. 

And at least she does not fear them…but that could be that she had merely to lean back and kick her horse and could be far from him in a moment.  Faramir swore to himself that he sensed a flicker of amusement and pleasure from her mind, but he was uncertain; it could just be the reflection of his own. 

There was possibility of more; under his leaning weight, his horse had mimicked hers and shifted a step nearer so that he could more easily reach her, but he knew he would not get it—Éowyn was already retreating.  Faramir sighed inwardly.  It was enough that she’d reached, enough that she’d done some movement of showing that she wished what he wished.  Éowyn smiled faintly as she withdrew, as he’d thought, clearly enjoying his kiss, the moment or both.  Faramir felt his heart leap and beamed, thinking that maybe he could feel a glimmer of her pleasure.  Or is it mine alone?  He still couldn’t tell, his mind was too filled with delight.  Reaching to touch her cheek and seeing that she did not flinch, only her pupils widening a bit, he smiled broadly, declaring, “I love you.”

She flushed, eyes widening still further; her mouth moved hesitantly and his heart leaped into his throat, ready to choke him with his joy, but instead of speaking, she just looked down.  Dazed, conscious of the horribly absolute silence in which they sat, he watched her hands play with the hem of her shirt.  Soul withering, he waited, but Éowyn did not answer and with every mute second, his joy died, his heart choking him for an entirely different reason now—the pain of rising misery.  When, when will I have earned trust for words of love?  When?  Faramir bowed his head, trying not to betray a sound as he stifled his pain.

Questions spawned and spurred by his constantly denied yearnings came to the fore of his mind and struck against his tightly compressed lips, bringing madness with them.  What man raised his hand against you?  What man?  Who?  Who, so that I can slay him and bring you the corpse so that then, then you will laugh and love me the way I love you?!

The depth of his frustration surprised Faramir.  It even frightened him a little, a raging sea beneath his breast, throttling him and causing his muscles to draw taut with unbearable yearning.  Control…any loss would only spook her.  He smiled, mustering enough courage to let the moment go.  “Éowyn?”  Faramir nudged his mount and they began to follow the dirt paths back to the City.

Her voice was very timid, almost fearful, “Yes?”

He took a deep breath, remembering the core of his Ranger’s training, patience.  Patience, but patience for how long?

Patience, fool, or you will wreck what little you’ve earned already.  Acceptance shoved his anger and frustrations back down into his gullet where they churned, unfulfilled.  At least this time she had not answered with the cold, formal title and he was undistracted. 

Each of his questions held another beneath it and he sensed her understanding and caution.  “Tell me, did you enjoy eating in the Hall of Feasts?”  Would you like to join me tonight…every night until you leave me?

“I…suppose…”

Do you mind accompanying me today?”  Would you stay near me until you leave? 

“No, I don’t mind.”  She gave a firmer answer and he was pleased.  Éowyn looked to Ithilien then, surprising him as she mused.  “It looks more…inviting from here.”

“Does it…?  W-would…  Tell me, would you like to cross the River tomorrow?”  Heartbreak vanishing in a surge of rapture, Faramir’s eagerness made him stutter, forgetting all other questions or obligations at once.  The bridge had not yet been rebuilt, but…  “There are ships, the Corsair vessels, to take us and our mounts across the banks.  We could ride for a morning in our country.”  Faramir smiled at her, desperately hopeful as he added in a softer, gently imploring voice, “We could not reach Emyn Arnen, but you would see what the land will be like around our home.”  Say you will…say you that shall…please…

“All…” Her hesitation showed she was less than enthusiastic, but he saw a glimmer of curiosity in her gaze.  “All right.”

Faramir remembered his duties.  “Then let us return.  I must listen to my folk today, but tomorrow…” He felt himself beaming.

Éowyn smiled faintly and he knew why; his enthusiasm was easy enough to hear, and, he supposed from the feel of the wide, irrepressible smile that he wore, to see.  “What are you doing?”

“Claims of my people.  I must sit as judge.”  In the Steward’s chair…he felt himself tense.  He’d never so much as sat in the place of honor, the great ebony throne placed at the widest, lowest step of Elessar’s magnificent dais.

“Can…I watch?”

“If you wish.”  Faramir smiled at her, pleased that she wanted to see what he did, pleased that she wanted anything to do with him.  I’ve made progress…  Impossible as it seemed with her refusal to match his statement of love, it looked like he finally had.

As he politely gestured, she led the way.  To his surprise, Éowyn immediately let her mount loose and they sprang into a gallop, weaving at speed down the narrow dusty lanes, not halting and barely slowing even for the curves.  Chunks of flung dirt came back to strike his chest and explode, making him duck and pull back his horse.  His bay was difficult to control, wishing to fly and overcome her chestnut; one-handed, Faramir hung onto it as well as he could.  He watched her ride easily, not touching her reins and even urging her mount into further speed.  They slid to a partial halt at a sharply curved lane, the gelding kicking up his heels and tossing his fiery mane as he sprang again into a run, tail flagging in high spirits.

Éowyn laughed at the motion and he heard the clear note of joy in her voice.  Faramir, slowing his mount to make the same curve, despaired that he’d never been able to create that note.  Not yet…  His determination was fierce as he stared at the waving mass of her golden hair and allowed his charger to come to the side of hers.  Faramir was delighted when she turned, laughing at him, then stretched out her hand.  Their fingers met, brushing lightly, then clasped, arms moving in the motion of their horses’ gallops.  Éowyn laughed again, giving him a squeeze before releasing and urging her mount ahead of his.  Her hair flew out behind her in a wave of gold, her breasts bounced gently under the plain woolen shirt; her cheeks were pink with excitement and she looked beautiful.  He stared admiringly at her unadorned loveliness and kept his horse close as they galloped between the imposing walls and up the wide street together, slowing to a jog, then halting at the stables.  Beregond, ever faithful, was waiting for him. 

The moment her horse slowed, she jumped out of the saddle, cheeks flushed and eyes alight.  Éowyn looked invigorated, roused, not at all pale or chill, but laughing and girlishly exhilarated, even approachable.  “That was wonderful!”

Faramir dismounted far more slowly, careful and awkward with his wounded hand.  He met her smile, “Yes.”  Really, he was surprised that he was surprised at her appearance.  She told me she loved to ride…  Immediately, gazing at her radiant face and wide smile, he decided to schedule as many excursions on horseback as possible.  Every day if I must!

Hugging the chestnut’s neck, she peeked at him, her temple pressed to the horse’s mane.  Their hair mingled, the fire-red of the animal’s with her bright flaxen.  “Does…it hurt as much today?  Your hand?”  She’d watched him dismount.

He glanced at the appendage in question, noting the bluish, red-purple and yellow bruises, the splints and cloth.  “Yes.”  It ached dully but constantly, throbbing whenever he brushed it against anything.

At her quiet, he met her eyes.  Éowyn licked her lips, murmuring, “Do you have time for me…?  I could prepare something…” She sounded guilty now, “To help take away your pain.”

Always.  Faramir strangled his enthusiasm before it could leap out and frighten her.  He beamed, pleased by far more than the temporary easing of his pains.  She cares…she offers solace…  Éowyn loved him, even if she did not yet say it.  Deep within his chest, his wounded heart eased.  “Yes.  I think so.”

“Good.”  Éowyn appeared even more shy, gazing away before she admitted tinily, “I…I enjoyed tending to you, Faramir.”

His name and the admittance made him grin at her, delighted.  She laughed faintly, then looked away, only to glance back and laugh again in embarrassment.  Heart blazing in joy, Faramir was smiling when Beregond straightened and came to attention.  He turned, feeling his Captain’s rising attentiveness, even wariness.

Éomer moved down the street, clearly coming their way.  At once, Faramir was seized with the urge to usher Éowyn away, to keep her for himself, and he smothered it, reminding himself to act with courtesy and to keep his temper.  Nearby, Éowyn had bitten her lip and he could see, not feel, frustratingly, that she was anxious.  Faramir smiled gently at her, hoping to reassure.

“Sister.”  The Lord of the Mark did not acknowledge him at all and he noted Beregond’s tight jaw, his displeasure.  He was right; Éomer’s lack of recognition was disrespectful.  I do not wish to provoke him…  Well aware of his love, Faramir gestured discreetly, indicating that the Beregond should remain silent.

“Brother.”  She hung onto the horse as if for comfort, scratching behind its ears and allowing it to rub its head against her. 

Éomer stared at the sweating chestnut like some thought had just come to him.  “You have no mount to return…I was supposed to ask you…”

Quick to see an opportunity for earning favor, brother’s or sister’s, he interrupted, “The Lady Éowyn is welcome to any horse within the City stables.”  Faramir smiled at her, “Provided it is not owned by another.”  Éowyn shyly returned his smile, but her brother scowled. 

“Thank you, Faramir.”  She stroked the chestnut’s neck.  “I think I like him well enough to take…”

Smiling, Faramir corrected, “To borrow.”  You will bring him back when we return from my ridiculous tests…

Éowyn echoed him with less enthusiasm.  “To borrow.”

Her brother looked him up and down in a slow, disdainful fashion.  His voice was too arrogant for any hope of pleasantry, even if his words could not be faulted.  “That is generous of you.”

Now, how could that displease him?  He was baffled and reminded, incredibly, of his father, who had never been pleased with him.  Faramir felt a simultaneous urge to laugh and sob at the comparison.  I need no more abuse…Elbereth, I beg you!  He composed himself, but could not stop his tongue.  “It is the least I could do…until we build and fill our stables in Ithilien.”  Possessively stressing the word, Faramir did not miss the flare of anger in Éomer’s pale eyes.  The knowledge that he’d struck a blow gratified him, making him add; “I will be able to supply as many mounts as it pleases her to have.”  I am richer than your entire country…the lapse into arrogance gave him a moment of unease.  It was unlike him.  I am not a beast and I will not let this man make me into one!

Éomer did not respond.  His expression was cool, features stony with distaste, even his pale eyes harsh and forbidding.  Éowyn pressed her brow to her horse’s neck as if to hide from them both.

He could think of nothing to add save insult and Faramir turned, finding stable boys waiting.  Handing his reins to them, he offered his arm to his love.  She hesitated, but stepped forward to take it in a weak grip, eyes downcast, clearly uncomfortable.  Faramir could see the anger and impotence in Éomer’s gaze.  He wishes the day with her…I will not yield!  He felt a bit of shame as he goaded, “Is there anything you need, Lord Éomer, anything that I can aid you with?” 

The man ignored him, but his features tightened again in anger, jaw clenching over any answer.  Faramir experienced a moment’s satisfaction—in her presence, the Lord of the Mark did not dare to antagonize him.  Despite his plain outrage, Éomer’s supplication was low, almost soft, “Sweoster…”

Éowyn responded to the plea in the same tongue, leaving him with ignorance.  Faramir listened intently, thinking many of the simpler words seemed the same in Rohirric as the Common Tongue, just altered in sound by a foreign accent.  “Ic…Ic wille sæge ge…niht.  Se niht, gea?”

“Gea.”  Éomer nodded, frustrated.  Suddenly his face brightened and he objected, declaring in a deep tone of authority.  “You have no guard, Steward.”  His brow furrowed, barely hiding his near glee, “I gave you yesterday, no longer, and you must…” 

Unruffled, his chest filling with a self-satisfied laugh, Faramir called, “Beregond.”

The reply was instantaneous.  “My Lord?”

You think you have me?  He would have to keep Beregond closer than he’d had of late, but it was worth the grimace: raging and fully aware of his inability to act, that flashed across Éomer’s face as the guard responded and stepped forward.  Faramir paused as the man came to his heel and stood at attention, awaiting his next order with polished equanimity.  “Beregond is my Captain…does he suit your command of a guard?”

Both Rohirrim seemed startled by his words.  Éomer nodded very slowly and very reluctantly, his hands tightening into fists.  “Yes.”

“Good.”  Not wasting another moment, not even to rub in his victory, Faramir swept Éowyn away, moving quickly.  Her feet lagged for a few strides, but soon kept to his pace.  Wordlessly, they climbed the hill and came before the White Tower.  He felt her slip from his arm as they walked under the shade of the doorway, nervously asking.  “Where…?”

Faramir was uncertain.  Of course he’d never seen his mother sit in the Tower—children were not allowed within it, even the sons of the Steward.  There is no place…  “I’m not sure.”

“In Edoras…” Éowyn paused, her hands twisting, and he nodded to encourage her.  “I stood behind Théoden…to wait upon him.”

“If you desire to stand there, I do not object.”  He would not object to anything she wished as long as she stayed.  Faramir drew closer, “Though I do not expect you to wait upon me.  I have enough attendants.”  Éowyn smiled a little and he held up his broken hand.  “Save, you spoke of fetching…if it is no trouble…?”

“Yes, yes, I will go.”

Before the Tower, under the eyes of Beregond and multiple guards, he watched her depart.  The doors opened for him with his Captain’s hand attentively rapping at the stone.  Slowly, Faramir walked down the long, narrow hall, then stepped onto the wide, pale expanse of the first stone stair.  The chair that awaited him was ebony, so resplendent in its blackness that it almost seemed unreal, especially against the ashen room; made entirely of some dark stone, it gleamed, showing his ghostly, trembly reflection.  The arm was chill to his hand and Faramir lowered himself into the seat, feeling the same chill against his back, his legs.  He tried not to shudder or hunch forward, instead struggling to appear comfortable.  With a small gesture he’d seen his father do many times, he commanded the doors opened again.  He watched the art of it, the deft guards who wore nothing of bright silver and thus were near invisible in the gloom behind the doors, slipping back and away out of sight into tiny antechambers to create the illusion of some enchantment or power of his.  Clearly awed, the first of his folk timidly made their way to bow and stand before him at a proper distance.  The doors shut again, pulled with slender ropes by the hidden guards, and the men jumped—the cords were pale to match the doors and at the length of the room, they could not see them.  Faramir smiled faintly; as a lad in his first livery of the City guard, he’d long discovered the secret.

 Taking several slow steps to come before him, Beregond made certain that the men kept their distance, standing in their way, though only indirectly, allowing a direct line of sight.  His shoulders were squared, mail gleaming, sword angled on its sheath, making him a pleasing, yet intimidating figure.  He spoke firmly, calmly, “Your Lord wishes to know your names.” 

The men obeyed, voices quavering in contrast.  Faramir smiled and forgot some of his discomfort, too focused on the nervousness of the men before him.  He spread his hands, leaning forward in the chair, saying quietly, “Please, tell me why you have come.”  Keeping his voice low reduced the echoes—echoes that might intimidate his already intimidated appellants. 

  As they began to speak, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind, a sense of wrongness.  Faramir’s smile faded as he looked back and forth between the two men who’d come to argue over the ownership of a herd of unbranded cattle scattered by the attack on the City.  Who is telling the truth?  The sense of a lie flickered, making him think it was but a small one, bolstered by truth or passion and difficult to find.  Listening closely, he concentrated on their words, their tones.  Who…

***

Returning, Éowyn hesitated at the doors, uncertain of what to do.  They were far taller than she, of pale stone and looked cold.  She’d no more than raised her hand with the idea of timidly knocking before they began to open, startling her.  Light sprang ahead, illuminating the dim throne room and she inched into it, a little frightened to see that there were no doormen whatsoever.  Who opened them…?  It was some strange trickery and she felt herself shudder.  Where were the honest, smiling doormen of her country?  Men who wished her well, some even being so bold as to flirt with her in past times…slowly growing grim and hard as Théoden failed until they could do no more than warn her with their saddened eyes.  Éowyn felt her skin prickle, repelled by the doors that moved on their own.  This is not my country…

Far ahead, Faramir’s eyes rose, gazing at her.  He smiled, but it was brief; he was occupied.  Her footfalls echoing, Éowyn carefully skirted the men before him, aware of their and Beregond’s gazes, and approached the Steward’s chair.  She hesitated at the broad step, unsure of if she were allowed to come closer without a sign, ignorant of how to act in this foreign land—if it were Théodred or her brother on the throne in Meduseld, she would have not hesitated. 

To her surprise, Faramir solved her dilemma, halting the men’s accounts, “A moment” then rising to descend and take her hand, pulling her onto the step.  He smiled kindly, more affectionate now as he whispered.  “You can always approach me.”

Clutching her steaming cup, Éowyn did him a courtesy, deeply conscious of the others and of being within the White Tower.  “My Lord.”

His grey eyes flickered, but they were within quite formal settings and he could not reprimand her—or so she thought.  “Thank you, my dear Lady.”  The intimate word was a soft reproach, though only a gently hurtful one. 

“Your remedy, my Lord.” 

She looked down, offering him the cup and slipping behind the arm of his chair, taking refuge in its solidity.  Faramir held up the simple earthen vessel, peering at its contents with suspicion.  “Dare I drink?  Is the lack of pain worth the pain of this, my dearest?”  Again he stressed his affection.

Quiet, she answered, feeling like they were dueling in words, his affection coming to clash against the coolness of her reserve, a gentle, caressing hand to the hardness of an iron-plated shield.  “There is no pain in it, my Lord.”

She smiled as he sniffed the faint tendrils of steam and looked dumbfounded by its pleasing smell.  Faramir still appeared cautious, sniffing again.  “Perhaps…” He eyed her in a suspicious fashion that made her cup her hand to her mouth to keep in her laughter, momentarily forgetting their duel, their audience and their proper surroundings.  “Are you certain, my beloved?”  Again he contested with a firm endearment.

“Go on…” Feeling a rush of fondness, she relented and left off the formality.  The naturally bitter willow bark tea was sweetened with honey and the juice of berries, seasoned with spices; it was flavorful, not at all foul.  But that secret she kept to herself, finding a strange pleasure in watching him sip at the brew and not recoil, instead his brow raising and his eyes turning to her, pleased and questioning.  Faramir smiled at once, then drank again, clearly amazed that he did so without a single grimace. 

Éowyn watched a servant come to take the cup once he’d downed the tea.  Reseating himself, Faramir glanced at her, smiling lightly.  His voice was low, playful.  “The other must have been punishment, my love, this was much more palatable…are you sure it was a proper draught?”  He was teasing her even here, and ending their duel with a smoothly interjected devotion, making certain of his victory with two.  “My dearest?”

“Yes…Faramir.”  She smiled, giving in, bashful at both the spectators and his warm gaze.  His satisfaction gave her satisfaction, which made it difficult, made her forget her purpose. 

“Very well.”  He beamed warmly at her, making her surrender to his endearments feel more like victory.  Turning back to his audience, Faramir commanded them to speak and finish their tale.  Éowyn listened with half an ear, gazing at the throne room from her perch.  It was very cold and sterile, making her fidget, conscious that even though she’d washed the dust and scent of horse from her hands and face and once more clothed herself in the borrowed rose and ivory gown, she was not fit for the grandeur of the White Tower.  Delicate, pale stone made up almost every surface; statues of Kings, pillars, the smooth floor, the walls; and where it did not, hard, glittery black stone did.  She peeked behind herself to the raised throne.  It was similarly hard and cold and of pale stone.  Éowyn shivered though the White Tower was not chill; the frigidity was purely in her mind, making her long for the warm and rustic simplicity of Meduseld.  This place was terribly barren to her eyes, not at all a place of welcome; she did not feel that in this hall, one’s Lord would listen with a kind heart.  Perhaps it was meant to make her feel like this, to make her uneasy, conscious of her lowly status.  Éowyn cupped her elbows, shivering.  What Lord could be kind here? 

 Éowyn glanced down to her Prince.  The only part of him she could truly see, Faramir’s inky hair was as dark as his chair.  She wondered why his seat was the only material thing of darkness in the room.  Turning her gaze to his shoulders, she saw that his livery was warmly raven-colored against the cool black of his seat, the silver and white embellishments of his raiment shining like stars.  He looked rather magnificent and she smiled with woeful affection.  Carefully, some impulse prodding her, she laid her hand on the back of his chair, fingertips just brushing his shoulder.  His hair fell upon them, soft, ticklish.  She shifted her fingers, feeling the pliant, tanned leather, the coolness of its surface and, below, the heat of his body. 

 At once he leaned back, clearly aware of the touch and encouraging her.  Tentative, Éowyn slipped her hand from the cool stone to rest her palm on his surcoat.  She hid near to the nape of his neck, feeling the firmness of his shoulder, the softness of the high-collared shirt that he wore beneath his surcoat and longer, split cotehardie.  It was embroidered with tiny curls and scrolls of white gold and she brushed the pads of her fingers against it, marveling at the richness and attention to detail.  Again, sensitive to her touch, Faramir’s head turned almost imperceptibly.  She couldn’t see his face, but she caught the brightness of his small smile and was once again struck by sorrow.  I would not leave him…the City she would be gone of in an instant.

Suddenly Faramir turned back to the speaking men and his voice changed.  She looked up, uneasy, alert to the rare and imposing sound of his wrath, gingerly taking away her hand as the shoulder she’d been touching grew rigid.  “You are lying.”

“M-my Lord?”

“You are lying to me.”  Her Prince rose at once, towering over them.  Éowyn took a step back, listening.  His every word was severe with exasperation.  “I see your falsehoods.  Do not deny them.”  She frowned, mystified.  How could he see them?  It seemed an odd choice of phrasing.

“N-no, my Lord!”

 With a sharp gesture, he indicated the man to the right who’d merely looked puzzled and outraged.  “The animals are yours.  Go.”  The other, his face increasingly guilty and frightened, Faramir bid stay.  He stepped down to the level of the man and gazed at him; behind his Lord, Beregond took a step closer, adding his presence to the menacing display.  The silence lengthened and Éowyn fidgeted, nervously clasping her hands.  But the man who cringed before her Prince was in a worse state, nearly trembling.  Finally, Faramir spoke and was calm, if cool, “Why do you lie to me?”

“My Lord…”

“You seek animals that are not yours, waste my time with a false complaint of thievery and drive a decent man from his labors.”  Her Prince paused, then asked, “What of the cattle?”  His frown became more hesitant; his eyes focusing on something Éowyn could not fathom.  “You had some?”

“M-mine were killed in the battle…”

“And you would not work honestly to rebuild your herd?”  Faramir looked repulsed, wearied.  The man had no reply.  “Beregond?”

“My Lord?”

“Find this man a duty worthy of his experience; if in a week he shows no more falsity, pay his wages and keep him in service.”  Éowyn frowned, seeing that Beregond was just as puzzled as she was by the sentence.  Faramir was terribly lenient. 

“Aye.”  But the guard obeyed, sending the man away with another garbed in the livery of the White Tower.

Climbing back to his seat, he sighed and gave a small, nearly imperceptible gesture.  “Whoever is next.”  As the doors opened on their own, Faramir caught her looking at him.  He gestured her to lower, murmuring into her ear, “He lies out of desperation…I have no heart to punish fear with the harsher burden of pain.”  He smiled wanly, “I give him service, a chance to earn money to buy what he needs.  His cattle would have been sold to others or butchered for himself…the end result would be to feed his folk, to clothe them, pay fiefs to Elessar for his home within the City walls.  He is not wealthy…and has family, several daughters too young for marriage, no sons that survived…” His eyes had gone out of focus, like he was seeing something beyond her.  She stared wonderingly, not remembering that the man had mentioned all those details.  Her Prince came back to himself, voice firming, “Now he has wages to do what the cattle would have.”  Faramir’s hand went to his temples, rubbing them.  “Why he did not choose this path, I do not know.”

She nodded, still thinking he was lenient not to punish a liar, a potential thief who hadn’t enough knowledge of honorable conduct to labor to earn what he needed.  Faramir sighed as he turned, smiling readily at the next small group of men that came to seek justice.  While he spoke to them, Éowyn replaced her hand and his voice lightened at once, as though she’d soothed him.  Staring down at the dark crown of his head, she felt sorrow.  I would have you…but what he came with was not what she wanted at all.  I’m sorry…

She stayed the day with him, breaking their fast at noon with light cakes, wine, fruit and cuts of hot, roasted meat at a table that servants fetched, sitting in carved chairs pulled near with cushions of velvet.  Éowyn was hungry, but tried her best to eat as the Ladies had, taking little and savoring it daintily.  Faramir wolfed his, making her envy his ability to freely display his appetite.  He turned to her, asking, “Is this wearying you?  Would you rather go?”  Her Prince smiled, “You will not hurt me, my love.”  He’d returned to his endearments, making her smile in mournful return, knowing she would not break him of them save when she broke his heart and their troth.

“No.”  Éowyn found his consistent mercy and charity in the peasant’s appeals to be comforting.  It shamed her to doubt him as much as she’d had.  He is good…but it also showed her how good, much better than what she was worth.  Faramir deserved a woman he did not have to pursue and tame like…like I was a wild creature.  She stared at her fine plate and rich goblet.  Why do you love me?

“Why not?”  Éowyn could hear his smile.  “I would have been gone already…you have more patience than I.”

“I…like to watch you.”

She heard the clunk of his knife as he set it to his plate, the soft creak of his leather surcoat as he leaned closer, intently asking, “Do you?” 

“Yes…” Éowyn looked up long enough to admit, “You are very good to them, merciful.”

Faramir glanced away, frowning at the long, thin windows that let light into the Tower’s base.  “My folk have enough troubles without some punishment of mine.”  Yet he’d inflicted many, setting numerous drafts of service upon thieves or those who’d committed petty allegations.  Men who’d beaten other men in fights, been accused of rape or otherwise endangering others were dealt with more harshly.  To her surprise, for how the civilized the people of the City seemed, there were a few murders to puzzle over and dole punishments for—the harshest of punishments, stripping a man of possessions, rank, even clothing, and sentencing him to lifelong labor, imprisonment without the hope of freedom, slavery.

Many of the guilty were assigned to the brutal, dangerous work of hacking out the blocks of pale stone from the quarries in the mountains or of mining gold and gems from the hills under the watchful eyes of Guards.  More were sent to fill out crews of workers within the City, made to toil on the Pelennor, clean the stables with the stable boys, do countless menial and physically demanding tasks.  Higher-ranking men were punished severely, made to do peasant’s work in view of their peers, stripping them of their dignity and their soft, pale noble’s hands; Éowyn watched them blanch and stiffen, seeing the rage in their eyes.  It was anger that wilted before the fury in her Prince’s as he lectured them of their place, of their history and hallowed duties to their people before sending them away with particular distaste.

 The truly contrite in heart were punished less, though still sternly; and how Faramir could tell the truly ashamed from the ones without regret, Éowyn didn’t know, nor how he always knew who was at fault.  She’d listened to many accounts and Faramir seemed to have an eerie ability to discern the truth, to cut through lengthy pleas or tearful explanations.  He is wise…but it seemed to her, little experienced in judging.  Perhaps the former Steward had not left this duty to Faramir. 

She’d eaten all she’d judged she should if she wanted to maintain the appearance of a Lady.  Éowyn turned her hungry eyes from the platters and sipped the wine.  Faramir still ate, stabbing bits of fruit with his knife and turning to call, “Beregond?”

“My Lord?”

“Tell me about the stables.”  The guard obliged, reciting quickly.  Faramir frowned, “The roofs?”

“Damaged by fire, my Lord, many holes and weak points.”

“In need of repair…as most things in my City.”  He gave her a careworn smile.  Éowyn nodded, toying with her skirt beneath the table.  “Have you had enough?”

She glanced at her empty plate, wishing it had held more.  “Yes.”  Tonight, with her brother, she would eat.  Éowyn smiled, looking forward to it.  Éomer would not care if she devoured a whole ox in front of him.  He has not the manners of my dear Faramir…she smiled a little wider.  Few in her country did.

Faramir rose, his chair scraping, and she followed suit.  Servants came to clear away the mess, carrying away the table and chairs.  But her Prince did not mount his sable throne again, instead standing where he was, gesturing that she should come nearer.  When Éowyn obeyed, he sighed, asking in a low voice, “If you wish to go…”

“No.”

“Good.”  He came closer now, raising his broken hand, “It feels like new again.”

Éowyn smiled, delighted and yet apprehensive because now he took another stride, coming still closer.  Would he seek to kiss her here?  Her tone grew more formal, nervously hiding in cool decorum.  “I’m glad to be of service.”

He frowned; she’d displeased him, of course, she’d known she would the moment the words had left her mouth—they were far too stiff.  “I do not need or want service from you, Éowyn.”

Impulsively, she blurted, “What…w-what do you need, want?”  Faramir did not answer for a long time, his grey eyes searching hers for the briefest of instants before she grew uncomfortable and dropped her gaze.  In their silence, he leaned forward and kissed her brow, no more than a gentle press of his lips, perfectly chaste and acceptable within their surroundings, she guessed, for she heard no gasps of outrage.  

 If that was his answer, she did not understand it save in her skin, which tingled from his touch.  Éowyn frowned and looked up again.  Faramir smiled down at her, the curve of his mouth somehow very sad.  He held out his hand and gestured grandly to the black chair.  Her Prince murmured, “Accompany me?” 

She could do no less.  Nodding mutely, Éowyn took his hand and followed him, mounting the wide stair to stand at his side, her palm to his shoulder, feeling the shift and warmth of it.  His hand rose, pressing hers gently to his surcoat before he spoke, greeting the next commoners.  His fingers laced with hers, making her realize he wished the support of her hand, her gesture.  Éowyn delicately squeezed back, knowing her sorrow.  If I could…but she was unfit in all ways.  You chose wrongly, my dear Faramir…and I am very sorry.  Safe from his gaze, she bowed her head. 

It was late when he bid the rest of the appellants to their homes and rose, stretching.  Éowyn’s legs and feet were weary, making her glad the Houses were not far.  As the tall, pale doors closed and dark-liveried guards materialized to stand before them, Faramir turned to her, his hand outstretched.  She took it reluctantly.  “Will you go now…or break your fast with me in the Hall of Feasts?”  The last was lit with a blinding smile of hope.

My brother…she hesitated then shook her head.  Éomer would be jealous enough as it was.  He might even come searching for her again.  “I must go.”

“Yes…” He brightened anew, “But, tomorrow, you will ride with me in Ithilien?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn became mildly perturbed; he wasn’t letting her go.  He is so pressing…he needs me or thinks he does…how can he think that?  She’d never met a man who desired her companionship so much…save one…oh, one…Éowyn forcibly squashed the reminder.  When her Prince’s constant attention was not pleasant, it was almost suffocating, but it had never been frightening or detestable.

“I cannot wait.”  Faramir brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there.  He smiled at her, turning his hand so that his clasped hers rather than held, their fingers now interlacing and brought it up again to hold to his chest.  She remained passive, uncertain and wishing he would just release her. 

I’m hungry, I’m tired…

He bent and she moved closer, relieved.  Faramir would kiss her and then she could go.  He glowed at her movement, grey eyes like stars, a great, wide smile appearing.  Éowyn knew she was giving him false hopes, but couldn’t help it.  She enjoyed his kisses, his company and yet she wished to go and sit with her brother.  Faramir came lower, meeting her eagerly, almost too eagerly.  Éowyn felt his tongue seek entry again and though the warm, smooth touch of it to her lips, adding slight moisture and much more intensity, made her thrill, she denied him.  Faramir asked again, opening his mouth a fraction, letting her feel his heat, his slight, electrifying wetness. 

It was an invitation, a question in flesh that she had no idea of how to answer or what she even wished to answer, yea or nay.  I…I don’t…parts of her were near faint with nerves, others eager to acquiesce, to match his ardor.  She couldn’t decide, feeling her breathing grow shallow, terribly aware of the heat of his body against her front, the feather-light touch of his thumb to her cheek, his fingertips to her skin.

He moved against her, slow and urging her with kisses more rhythmic, deeper, and though Faramir was not demanding, he was not giving up, either.  Like before, after their quarrel and confinement in the dusty storage room, Éowyn gasped for breath and he succeeded for a moment in his quest.  Her astonishment and the sudden, feverish thrills that ran under her skin nearly allowed him to succeed completely. 

To his credit, he was much gentler this time, much more leisurely, only tickling her tongue and barely entering her, his mouth shifting against hers in tiny urges, seeking to inspire passion.  He kissed and retreated, opening a sliver of light between them, all hotness, wetness and roughness of stubble against her when he moved to close it; out of the corner of her eye she could catch his gaze, see how his eyes had changed and darkened with appetite.  Again, Faramir kissed and retreated, lapping at her tongue, trying to get her to come forward to him, smiling in between attempts as though to show her that he held no displeasure in her frigidity.  His little smile was ingratiating, pleading as he breathed, “Please…?  Have I not shown good conduct…?”  Another kiss, his mouth hotter this time, somehow more impassioned though he’d not been any more forceful and Faramir was almost grinning at her, imploring without pressure, lightly jesting, “Have you no reward?”

Putting her free hand to his arm, she stayed him a bit, making him pull back enough to smile more sheepishly.  “Faramir…!”  It was more exclamation than objection, she had almost thrown back her head and laughed at him, long and with abandon.  Reward, oh foolish man!  Shaking her head, Éowyn was delighted, even with his boldness, gazing up and seeing his flush.  I…oh, look at…his grey eyes had darkened like storm clouds, turning a beautiful sterling grey.  She’d roused him, that was clear and she felt a bit of nervousness return, glancing around the Citadel street; as she turned, he moved into the hollow of her neck, simply breathing there and she felt her limbs grow heavy and weak, unable to carry her away.  His mouth fastened, not suckling to leave a mark, but kissing hotly, the tip of his tongue teasing, teeth pressing just enough to feel them. 

Oh, wonderful…she remembered the softness of cushions under her, his kisses to her throat and shuddered, wishing she were within his rooms once again and could lie loose and relaxed with pleasure and let him do as he wished.  I am less afraid, she would enjoy his minstrations even more so than the first time.  How could it be better?  She was unsure, but…I would find out, oh, yes…now Éowyn did laugh, half-embarrassed with herself, knowing her lust for his caresses.  He makes me feel…wanton, I would want him, would desire, if I was not ruined…her breath caught and she closed her eyes.  Fury rose against the memory of the worm, the worm that had driven her to fear so that she fought to enjoy Faramir’s caresses.  I like his touch; do you hear me, Gríma?  I would let him take me to spite you, would give myself to this good man to destroy your memory, make you nothing but a dream of darkness! 

She felt unease; such dark, cold rage did not belong near her Prince.  What had that foul creature of a man done to her?  Ruined in heart, in mind, I can never let go, never be good enough, never allow what he desires…pity for Faramir briefly ruled her and she became aware that he’d drawn back a little, knowing her thoughts were elsewhere.  Faramir’s grey eyes were troubled as she dared to meet them.  Éowyn shook her head quickly, frightened that he would question her again.  She stepped closer to him, trying to encourage him to return to his caresses.  After a moment, he did, but with more care and less of his charmingly single-minded enthusiasm.

 “Did I not say…” His nose brushed her tender throat, his lips moved ticklishly, “With you I am a dwarf?”  Faramir kissed her skin softly, making her shudder and her tensions melt, her mind turn to him and him alone, especially as he chuckled and rose to smile hopefully against her brow, “All greedy desire…?”

She ducked back from his one-handed embrace, embarrassed, feeling her pleasure in his company return.  Éowyn laughed and nodded minutely, shyly directing her answer to the White Tree.  “Aye.”

He was stepping forward, his wonderfully deep, foreign voice rumbling from his chest as he pressed his cheek to hers, his renewed smile curving against her skin, warm breath puffing to her ear.  “Hmm…you must pardon me, then.”  Plainly no longer troubled, Faramir stepped still closer and she could feel the light press of his front, not unpleasant at all.  His able hand came to her waist, resting there without movement, flat and warm and oddly heavy as he embraced her, not kissing yet, simply holding.

“No, I mustn’t.”  Well aware of his touch, Éowyn was surprised when she laughed and kept her composure, not yet able to feel the first tendrils of iron-sharp fear spread through her chest.  Maybe…she felt a strange, powerful surge of hope and shifted her arms, wishing she could enfold him in them, hang onto his body and relax.  Maybe it was all right, maybe she could just…let go, oh, let go, I could trust and just…enjoy…her reservations snapped back, making her catch her breath in a deep, ragged inhalation. 

I misjudged…  Éowyn had underestimated another’s lust and determination before, thinking little to the man that stared at her, scorning him with silence, shocked into terror when one day he broke his deference and grasped her arm to try and force her to accept his caress, threatening death and worse to those she loved…  That day I learned fear didn’t I?  Learned I was no warrior, but a helpless girl, vulnerable, weak…her heart hurt, remembering how it had broken into cold shards of fear, knowing all she knew was flawed and nothing was right any longer.  I thought I was a warrior…

 But Faramir is good…no, she couldn’t.  She didn’t know what he would do if she yielded to him and to risk it might mean the destruction of the very enjoyable, warm feeling that even now filled her veins and heart with delicate contentment.  I want to feel like this…forever.  Her eyes pricked.

“No?”  His smile was broad, but his grey gaze searched hers and her face, acutely, even pre-naturally aware of her mood.  Éowyn broke then, hugging him tightly, wishing, wishing she would not leave him.  Faramir’s one able arm wrapped around her at once; he crooned soothingly into her ear.  “It’s all right…” His words sped up, became more urgent, “Tell me, please, I will not care what it is, I want to help…”

She untangled herself and stepped back, feeling herself struggling to keep her composure and renew their banter.  “Mind yourself, Master Faramir.”

“I’d rather mind you…” He bent his knees so that they were level, smiling with a touch of sorrow and kissing her again, his hands rising to cup her face—both of them, which meant he almost immediately jerked backwards, wincing.  “Ow!”

“Are you all right?”  Anxious at the pain that had flown over his features, she grasped his wrist, then looked up at him.  Faramir smiled, a bit chagrined.  Éowyn cradled his wrist, aware of the tenderness inherent in her gesture, an unconscious gesture, at that.

“Yes.  I just…forgot for a moment.”  His smile broadened, “Your skills are great, my Lady.”

She laughed at the compliment, incredibly flattered.  “Aye, to brew tea!”  He bent again and she pulled back.  Éowyn shook her head and bit her lip to contain another smile.  “Did I not say…?” 

He laughed, bowing slightly in acknowledgment.  “Until the morrow?”

“Aye.”

Faramir’s voice was softer, “Goodnight, Éowyn.”

“And you.”

She’d drawn a step back and he spoke a final time, saying rather simply.  “I will miss you at the table.”  Faramir bowed gracefully and turned away, walking to the Hall of Feasts.

Éowyn hesitated, staring at his broad back, his thick sable mane that swayed just slightly with each long stride.  Once more, he made a handsome picture, lank, moving with steady confidence, clothed in leather and cloth dyed raven black.  She watched until his tall, lean form slowly blended with others garbed in similar dark leathers, indistinguishable in the twilight.  Nihthelm…

Her heart gave a pang of regret.  A call would bring him back and she could enjoy his company again.  It would be too cruel…she shook her head and made for the Houses and her brother.

Eating with Éomer and his armed guards in some dining hall for soldiers and common men, she was forced silent, unable to speak of Faramir or any of her fears.  They stayed within her breast, bottled and raw, making her strain to concentrate.  It was all too familiar a plight and Éowyn despaired, feeling the same lying smile on her face, the same feigned indifference.  No, she had little to speak of, tell her more of Cormallen, tell her more of the Black Land and the horrible Gate to the Dark Lord’s domain, Sauron’s Mouth…more, more, anything so that I do not speak of what you do not wish to hear, brother of mine…  Listening to his descriptions of Eagles, the limp bodies of the hobbits and how they’d slowly healed and the ghastly, sunken field of war, she found her mind wandering down humiliatingly familiar channels. 

Gríma…she’d been unable to speak of him either for fear of stirring her brother’s awesome temper and causing incalculable devastation.  But there was good reason, then…  Faramir was nothing like him; did her brother not see that he had little to fear?  She closed her eyes briefly.  If she did not see and still felt nerves at his touch, his kiss, what hope had she for her jealous sibling?  Pity for her Prince rushed through her heart.  The sooner she rid him of herself, the better.

Éomer finally asked her of her new fondness for the healing arts and she still could not even say what she wished; if she did, Éowyn was certain that his smile would vanish and the light in his eyes would fade.  Her brother’s face would become still, turn sullen and the meal would be strained, stiff with tension.  It was better to lie and speak of her injury inspiring curiosity, not really a lie, but it was Faramir, Faramir who made me forget about stealing a mount and riding to the end of glory…when he spoke, he held me spellbound, his voice!  So deep and warm, sounding so alien with unasked for kindnesses even as it spoke so kindly, saying things of such beauty…  Saying she was beautiful, speaking nervously of love and troths, more reassuringly of the end of Darkness.  Oh, how I wish it would end!

Her hand made a fist under the rough table.  Her liar’s voice was practiced, many years had she told untruths to the one who knew her best.  “I wished to know what they’d done to aid me and the others in the Houses, I wanted to help, since I could not ride with you.”  She bowed her head briefly, thinking, no lies yet…  But she’d omitted her Prince’s smile, his generous offer of a new room in the crowded Houses, his courteous speech and constant, if restrained devotion…I leave out the heart.  As she’d guessed, here he changed, but only to gaze at her with fierce protectiveness and some fear.

“Are you…healed, truly?”  Éomer stared at her arm as though his eyes could pierce the white cloth that covered it.  Faramir’s mother’s dress was comfortable, simple, more to the clothing of her folk and she took solace from its warm folds.

“Yes.”  Éowyn sighed, thinking of the chill she’d felt on the Pelennor; others came to her mind, her dread of Faramir’s devotion, the City, the trap disguised in the masses of rich clothing within the former Lady Steward’s rooms.  “For the most part.”

“But you will be?  You will be well, sister?”  Éomer had put down his knife, his voice suddenly full of anxiety, almost high with it, creases arising on his brow to pile onto one another.  She smiled and nodded to reassure him, uncertain of herself.  It was but one more lie to one who was sure she’d never lied to him.

“Yes.  I will be well.”  Éowyn felt her throat constrict and poked her meat to hide it, smiling with all her strength.  “This is good.”

“Mm.”  Éomer nodded in agreement, reassured and suspecting nothing, and she felt like weeping. 

That, too, was familiar and made her wonder dismally if it would ever end, if the darkness that hung over her heart would ever rise and blow away, a cloud on the horizon, to make way for sunny day.  Sometimes Faramir made her feel like that, but…

Love or no love, especially love, I cannot harm him more…she stared at her knife, the plate messed with grease and gravy, the meat and simple fare that the lower levels enjoyed.  This was where she belonged, where she was home.  Éowyn glanced up at where the shining Tower would be seen if she were not within the confines of a dim, loud hall.  I should have ridden to Cormallen, and before that?  I should have followed what the Master said, asked Prince Imrahil to release me…at least then she would not feel such grief. 

Her brother began again, stealing her attention and she smiled weakly, feeling only sadness.  To bolster her spirits, she thought, when I am home, when I see the gold of my Hall, I shall be happy…  It was not the first time Éowyn lied to herself, either, the lies binding like spider’s silk, keeping her still and cold.  My womanhood was born of lies, was it any wonder that honest, gentle Faramir terrified her? 

I love him and I must leave him.  She laughed at her brother’s jest and felt like sobbing.  To enter Ithilien was foolishness.  I should not go…  Dangerous, deceiving foolishness.  He will think…

I should not go…but she would and his merry smile would cut in every late memory…oh, memory, when she broke from her oath and his love.  Her dread made her sick and she pushed the plate away.

***

Faramir woke early and his eagerness would not let him wait abed; he rose and dressed, swiftly flagging down a serving girl to call for Beregond, thinking to send his guardian ahead on horseback to warn the closest of the seized Corsair ships that he needed transportation.  If they could not bear him across the Great River, something would, he would will conveyance into being if he had to!  Before midday I shall stand within the borders of my land with my betrothed or…he felt desperation.  What would move her, what would open and warm her heart save his land, his beautiful land? 

He’d sworn he’d heard some deeply felt emotion in her voice the morning before…and she offered her knowledge, commanding the man as though she were already his Lady…surely, surely…  Faramir paused and ran his hand over his face before splashing it with water, trying to still his racing thoughts.  If the dazzling sight of his country did not shore up his faltering flower, then something else would—Éowyn had shown moments of true warmth, laughter and enthusiasm…he had only to coax her, as he did already, and show devotion, desire and regard.  As I do already.  He laughed soundlessly as there was a rap on his sturdy door.  Women of Rohan are not easy to court! 

Almost before he explained his intent, Beregond saluted, moving swiftly away to serve him.  His Captain was his shadow now, constantly at his side and awaiting an order unless he thought to dismiss the man back to his family, which he’d done much of late.  Truly, in these times of peace, he needed no such guard, but Elessar had commanded and it was done.  He harrumphed to himself.  No guards save that to protect me from the brother of my plighted!  It was still unthinkable that he and the man had actually fought.  Unthinkable and, even more, unbelievable had he not still the bruises, the broken hand.

Shaking his head, Faramir moved swiftly through corridors, finding his way to lesser-known passages and into the servant’s kitchen, startling many women as they prepared a breakfast for the nobles.  Red-faced, arms powdered with flour to the elbows and aprons already spotted, they courtesyed with astonished cries, “My Lord!” even as he smiled and waved for them to refrain, greeting light-heartedly,

“Good morning.”  He broke his fast there in the heat of many ovens and the almost overpowering scent of new bread, thinking over his plans.  First horses then ride to the ships, across the Anduin, then into his lands and…  

Perhaps…he sent someone in the kitchens to prepare a basket of uncomplicated fare and wine, thinking that a meal outdoors might be something Éowyn would enjoy.  My country!  Faramir sucked in a breath, trying to think as hard as he could, to remember every place of beauty or wonder within riding distance of the River.  They would have little time, but he could show her some places that were dear to his heart, he thought.  It was spring and he was sure he could find the hidden meadows of tiny, exquisite flowers again, the little splashing brooks lined with miniature flowerets, the thickets of blooming trees…  Faramir retraced his steps to gather two of his cloaks to sit upon as he thought of the smaller, less-known caves whose walls glittered with wonders and gave shelter to his Rangers in times of danger; the cloaks could also shield them from the chill.  Sending for ready made torches and retrieving his personal bit of flint and steel to light their way, he glanced over the wall of his City and imagined climbing the steep hills to look about at the beauty of his unspoiled lands.

 None had ventured into Ithilien yet, awaiting his command to claim rich plots of land, but soon…  Faramir felt his heart give a great blissful leap within his breast.  Soon…the house of my dream, the love.  Faramir, unable to wait for his eagerness, went to the Houses to see if his beloved was awake yet.  The streets were pale with the morning sun, little traveled and he moved swift, the Gate’s guards opening the barrier wide and at a distance so he would not even have to slow, recognizing his face and eager stride.  Another of his guard had managed to find him, having the good sense to wait at the first Gate, and now stood with the plain reed basket filled with simple food and a flask of good wine about one arm and the assembled torches in his hand.  The men on first watch bowed and he nodded, restraining himself to a walk as his escort fell into place behind him. 

The Houses were near silent, a few Healers moving noiselessly, the dawn hush broken by fretful cries of children, moans of men and, oddly, as he sprang up the stairs, there came the sound of song.  Leaving his attendant behind, he followed, curious as it grew stronger with each step to the east.  The lilting melody with its utterly foreign sound, familiarly voiced, made him sure of its owner so that Faramir smiled, awed and delighted all at once to hear her.  He’d not known she could sing. 

Éowyn murmured the words, the melody that Faramir just barely heard and certainly did not understand, floating down the hall to him.  “Ǽ, æftergǽð me tó se ea, æftergǽð me tó se scead, iernð mid me a, missenlice…”  But as he neared and peeked through the cracked door, the careless tread of his feet, carelessly loud from wonder and a strange feeling of being transported far away to a sad country and a melancholy girl, stopped the song in mid-verse.  As before when he’d accidentally snuck up to her in the gardens, Éowyn whirled from her window, pale eyes wide in shock, meeting his and then dropping in mortification.  “Oh…” For an instant, before the blush came to her paled cheeks and she muttered his name, “Faramir, you…” her hand had jerked, going to her waist as if to grasp something, yet halting inches above her plain shirt and falling away to hang idle. 

He frowned, not understanding the movement—it spoke of defense, of fear and her mind was terribly agitated, from what little he could gain a sense of.  Does she fear attack?  That seemed to make sense but…it didn’t make sense.  Who would attack her, a lovely and noble Lady, sister to the new King, adopted daughter to the former one?  Who did?  Protective anger rising against his unnamed, unseen enemy, Faramir smiled at her in apology, cracking the door further and leaning against the jamb, not sure he should approach yet.  Who dared face that brute she calls a brother?  It was a baffling mystery, like so many things about his beloved.  “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

Taking a breath, she pushed it out, making her fine hair move.  “It’s all right.”  Her brush was still in her other hand.  Éowyn set it aside, smoothing her men’s shirt and trousers, then moving so quickly to the door that he really didn’t get a glimpse of her room.  She slipped past him, giving the impression of nervous haste.  “Are we…?”

“Yes.”  He hoped to get a smile, offering his arm, but she just seemed uneasy, refusing him with a quick gesture.  “Is…something wrong?”

Éowyn cupped her elbows with her palms, shifting from foot to foot.  “No.”  She brightened just a little, “Do you wish a draught before…?”

Faramir lifted his broken hand to glance at it; freedom from the pain’s mild distraction would be welcome.  “I think so.”

Her distance seemed to lessen and she smiled.  “Come with me?”

He tried to make conversation.  “I’ve brought us a basket, I thought we could take refreshment in Ithilien.”

“That’s…nice.”  She all but lead the way, moving down the hall and deeper into the Houses with an eagerness that he did not sense or see within her, whether in her mind or the way she held her body.  Éowyn seemed apprehensive, turned away, shut off from him and he felt the gloom of defeat try to blanket his thoughts. 

No!  He would not give up, not surrender to her disturbances or fears.  Faramir strove to remain cheerful.  “Yes, there are many pretty places in our lands to picnic…” The word slipped from his tongue before he could curb himself, but he was careful to not put emphasis on it, not to pressure her.  Éowyn seemed to hesitate anyway, nearly skipping a stride.  Faramir offered his able hand and she shook her head.  Unable to keep the eager, ardent air from his voice, he added, “I cannot wait to show them to you…the few we shall see today, of course, we cannot go far.”  Éowyn only nodded answer, quickly gathering bits of herbs, spices and heating water. 

He watched, curious.  Faramir knew many healing plants, it was part of his Ranger’s education and he watched her put them together, fascinated by the quick assurance of hands that seemed so unsure so often.  Was his Lady was only unsure about and around him?  I cannot say; he’d had no way of indirectly observing her.  Éowyn glanced at him and smiled, no longer quite so distant.  Faramir returned it, bantering lightly, “Do I dare hope there shall be no pain in this, as well?”  He teased, “I startled you…”

“I promise you will feel no pain.”  Her smile froze in the act, slowly growing more natural as the tea brewed.  She leaned against the wall, folding her arms to her stomach and making a beautiful picture; he ached to draw her, inspired to put pen or pencil to paper, a feeling he’d not had in a long, long time.  There was silence and stillness between them for a moment, not entirely comfortable.  He broke it, leaning to draw a few long strands of her hair forward, watching them catch in the corner of her mouth, her head moving slightly away, aware, eyes cautious.  Somehow that was even better than his original thought.  Éowyn gazed at him, her chin up, stance more alert than it was before, yet still somehow remaining feminine and demure, hair caught against her lips, golden strands falling over her shoulders and her collar to hide the plainness of her garb.  She appeared some unearthly radiant maiden; a peasant blessed with light and nobility or a noblewoman hiding within rough clothes.  He sighed, wishing he had before him a canvas, a stylus, anything.

 “What is it?”  Her frown only made sweet creases in her pale brow.  Faramir smiled, thinking she looked perfect.  His hands itched to draw her, the desire consuming him.

“How is it that you come to my City unbound to any man?”  His voice lowered, “I cannot imagine that no suitors courted you…”

Her pride was audible and visible in her erect bearing, her strong voice; so were her nerves as her hands chafed one another and her eyes bolted from his like startled deer.  “I would have none.”

“Surely they would have thrown themselves at your feet to beg you reconsider…”

Éowyn’s eyes snapped back to his and her teeth gritted; her body was suddenly tense, almost rigid with constriction, arms tightening over her breast as though to protect herself.  “I said I would have none.”

Startled by her forceful tone, Faramir both marveled and fretted at the constant mystery.  He tried to redirect their conversation, teasing lightly, “And now?”  She relaxed, turning her head away to bite her lip.

“Now?”  Had he thought her frown sweet?  Her smile was honey, golden, slow and spreading over her lips.  He gazed at her steadily and her embarrassed laughter was as musical as the dulcet strumming of harps.  Éowyn shook her head, more hair coming to hide her, and handed him his steaming cup.  She still sounded embarrassed, clearing her throat and murmuring, “Your potion.”  Then, to his amazed delight, she added affectionately, “My Fool.”  Faramir laughed, unable to keep from beaming while he took the cup, gingerly handling the hot thing.  Éowyn covered her mouth, compressing her lips and shaking her head at him.  “Drink!”  When he did, her eyes fell upon his hand.  “Have your wraps been changed?” 

“No.”

“Let me?”  Faramir nodded, pleased at her care.  She cannot say the words of love, but her intent is of love…for an instant he felt tight under his skin, frustration prodding him to demand why that was so; fortunately, it faded as she stepped closer.  He could sense her more easily as she approached, feeling irregular flashes of emotion at her touch.  Curious…had his gift ever been like this?  Had he ever moved from a complete inability to read a person’s heart to the slow increase in what he could sense?  Physical contact usually helped, but for Éowyn it had not before, what had changed?  She no longer fears so much…he watched her hands tenderly gather his wounded one, feeling her uneasy heart whenever her skin brushed his.  It’s all right…Faramir tried to give her a moment of relaxation, uncertain if he could reach her thoughts; he’d never been strong in that.  Do not fear me…I would never hurt you, never…

Éowyn glanced up, apropos of nothing he could determine save his mental encouragement and Faramir’s heart jumped.  Had she sensed him somehow?  Heard his support?  She smiled faintly, reassuring him, “Does it hurt, when I hold you?”

You, she’d said, not it, not just his hand, but him.  He glanced down, seeing his battered, bandaged hand in her slim, deceivingly feminine ones.  “No, not at all.” 

His love laughed a little at his admittedly mawkish statement, then gently, terribly gently, she untied and unwound the gauzy linen, careful not to catch the thin splints.  They both frowned at his bruised appendage, the scabbed scrapes, some reddened about the edges.  “If I wash it with…” Éowyn stared blankly at the ceiling, then smiled, “Valerian, it will heal more swiftly.” 

Automatically, he checked his memory, finding her correct.  He nodded again, not speaking and savoring the expression of triumph and pride she wore.  She likes to help…help me…his heart swelled with content, a quiet sort of happiness.  The words of love would have to wait; at least he had proof here, in her care, that she loved him.

As he watched her toss away the grimed old bandages, another fact about the plant came to mind and Faramir nearly guffawed—when drunk in neat wine, it was rumored to turn even the most virginal woman lustful.  He eyed her, just containing his smile, unable to imagine Éowyn in a state of lust.  Well…that was untrue, making him suppress a little shudder.  He could imagine, but the reality of the spectacle was beyond him.  It was difficult to even coax her into returning his kisses, for her to lust for him was a dream.  Faramir sucked in a breath, feeling his chest growing taut with distress, attempting to imagine their wedding night and how she might fear him, might be utterly terrified if she could not so much as allow his impassioned kisses.  No, no…the thought was horror, that he might have to face accepting her submission without passion, to look down at her face and see no love, no desire, only tightly closed eyes, a clenched jaw; endurance and passivity, distance instead of contentment.  I—I could not. 

He felt ill at the idea, any desire immediately sinking to cold ashes.  I must try harder…no matter what Éomer had in store for him, it would not last forever and the reality of a fearful bride was unacceptable.  I must try harder, coax her from her shell…he wanted to join with her, to make them into one, but that was impossible unless she allowed it, unless she wished the same.  And if she did not, then all he did to her unwilling body, no matter how gentle, would be only ugly animal lust.  He swallowed bile.  I am not an animal.

As she made her bracer, he took opportunity to sneak glances at her, memorizing anew the curve of her narrow hip, the way her usually loose clothing briefly clung to her flat stomach, her shapely, if lean, thighs.  Her long, strong legs enclosed in their humble woolen trousers, her lightly muscled arms ended in small, improbably delicate hands, the line of her throat where gold at the least should lie: it all moved him to equal parts desire, protectiveness and unease.  Hands that should hold rings, wrists that should be adorned with bracelets…riches for my love…riches he doubted she would wear.  Faramir frowned, what has happened to her that she refuses beautiful things, refuses intimacy, refuses everything I would give?  Sighing, he found that he could not imagine, or rather, refused to imagine such horrors befalling his love. 

In the course of her movements, he was graced with a fleeting view into the slack collar of her floppy man’s shirt.  Faramir did not waste it, greedily eyeing the invitingly secret and pale flesh between her small breasts, noticing the faint stirring of her bosom, always an instant behind the rest of her as her breasts moved, impelled by their own soft weight.  He measured them in his mind, already knowing just how he would caress her flesh.  If she will ever allow it…or allow it from desire of hers rather than my own…he shuddered; there was little pleasure without her consent.

 As she bent to add more sticks to the tiny hearth, Faramir eyed her narrow backside, thinking how she might look with the rounded body of a woman in child or who’d borne a child or two.  It might suit her, she was awfully narrow and slender as it was, thin, if he were to put it bluntly.  He remembered her eating little at the table; perhaps he should send for more appetizing dainties for their picnic and tempt her in their intimate, less intimidating setting.

Suddenly Éowyn met his eyes and she caught him looking.  He smiled feebly, sheepish and unsure of how she would react, if at all.  She seemed to stiffen and to watch him with disquiet, then close her eyes for an instant before looking at him more closely, like she were studying his face.  Indeed she was, studying it for…something, he knew not what.  Puzzled, Faramir was careful not to move, to keep his silence, his stillness, unconsciously holding his breath.  Please…

The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement, her stance relaxing.  Éowyn gave him a faint laugh, accepting his ogling without the fears that he was certain would have shown a few days ago.  “Are you finished?”  She reached for the cup, but her gaze held his, making her words into a jest.

“Yes…and no.”  He grinned, enjoying her half-chiding, half-blushing smile, feeling himself relax some.  It will be all right between us…  

“Come here.”  Her wash was prepared, the liquid cooled.  Éowyn daubed it on with gentleness, concentrating her efforts over the scabs and bruises. “Tell me if I hurt you, Faramir.”  Her direction held more emotion than was necessary, making him wonder.

“You’re not.”  He hardly felt her touch. 

“Good.”  She was distant again, finishing and then hunting for more of the thin gauzy cloth. 

Faramir didn’t know he was going to speak.  “Do…you think I did well…in the Tower?”

Éowyn paused, frowning.  “Yes.” 

A weight seemed to rise from his shoulders.  He’d had little experience in judging matters save those that arose within the ranks of men under his command.  Taking a deep breath, he smiled; his enthusiasm for the day had returned to him in full, making his question light-hearted, “Have you ever ridden on a ship?”

“No.”  She bit her lip.  “My people do not have many boats…and no ships.”

“Neither have I.”  Faramir watched her gather the cloth, conscientiously beginning to wrap his hand.  Her draught and the wash had helped considerably—he hardly felt her light touch and his scabbed over scrapes appeared cleaner and well on the way to mending, evidenced by their returning to the healthier color of flesh instead of an irritated red.  Éowyn tied a knot in the cloth to hold it in place, using a small knife to slice off the excess.  He smiled, reassured by her care.  “My ancestors did, I’m sure…as did those of Aragorn.  My people once lived neared to the Sea, sailed…” He found another spark of excitement for the day’s adventure; it glowed in his chest.  “I’m excited.”  She nodded, but without eagerness.  “Aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been on a ship.”  Éowyn hesitated, then admitted quietly, “I don’t like boats.”

“I’ll hold onto you…like I did the last night,” Faramir smiled at her, jesting.  “And make sure you won’t tumble into the River…or at least without me.”  He added, “Not that I’d be much help, with only one hand.”  Faramir laughed, “You’d have to save me from the current, I’m afraid, hardly dignified of me, don’t you think?”

Éowyn smiled back, holding his wrist, lifting and turning it to peer at his hand to make sure that he was adequately cared for.  When she was finished, she looked distinctly pleased with herself, making him smile in secret.  His love beamed.  “That’s all I know to do.” 

Eager, he grinned back.  “Let’s go then, there are many places I want to show you.” 

Beregond had done his duty and beyond—there were horses waiting at the stables, the same they’d ridden the day before, plus another; the second guard mounted it and lifted his silver banner.  A moment later, they were racing across the hard-packed road that led to the River.  Faramir could see one of the Corsair vessels there, waiting with its black sails limp, long paddles just barely hanging out.  The little he knew of ships had come from the books he’d read in the great libraries of Minas Tirith—accounts of battles on the Sea, poetry of Sea Kings or elves and small, rough master’s books that he’d read as a child.  

He gazed wonderingly at the barnacle-studded hull, its sloping dark sides of broad, smooth boards towering over the river’s brown, rippling surface.  The horses balked and wheeled, equally amazed with the ship’s magnificence and size.  The snorting animals had to be led up the wide, steep plank by some of the freed slaves, cajoled and urged with every stride.  Taking the reins, the men smiled and nodded with eager complaisance, speaking in foreign tongues that immediately provoked his curiosity.  Where were they from?  The far lands to the East?  Faramir glanced behind himself, staring at the horizon as though he were looking at it for the first time.  What lay beyond the Black Lands?  Beyond Harad?  Anything?  Everything?  He felt an urge to go, to see and suppressed it with difficulty.  After all, who had mapped all the lands since the last time the Sea had rose out of its confines?  Elves?  He doubted it; they stayed to their own country for the most part, rarely moving among the holdings of men.  Here, they say we know all that there is…what Men were greater at surveying than those of Minas Tirith, what Men held such history?  There could be more…he hungered for foreign vistas, then admonished himself.  This is my place, my home…my responsibility…Faramir sighed, feeling a strange discontent. 

Éowyn hung back, her eyes wide, as nervous as the horses.  Faramir smiled, taking her arm.  She grasped onto it when they mounted the deck and he felt the gentle sway of the River.  It was hardly noticeable; the Anduin was full and calm this day.  Curious, he watched the long poles of the paddles extend as men gave orders, then turned, gazing at the younger boys who swabbed the long wooden decks or mended the black sails.  Far below he heard rough voiced chants in a foreign tongue and felt the ship move, gliding slowly out into the River, leisurely beginning to cross from one bank to another.  The poles dug deep into the rushing water, pushing off the muddy bottom until they hit the current, then the chant changed and they rowed in slow, perfect alignment.  He smiled, awed and very suddenly wishing he’d spent his summers in Dol Amroth.  The sound of water splashing, voices chanting, the soft flap of the limp sails, it all called to his soul.

The horses tossed their heads and pranced, anxiety rising with each of the peculiar hollow sounds that their hooves made on the wooden deck.  Arms clasped to her chest, looking equally anxious, Éowyn did not follow him to the wooden rail; Faramir peered far below to the choppy, brownish water he’d known all his life and felt a moment’s disappointment that it was not the reportedly brilliant blue-green of the Sea.  When he turned, she was staring at him.  “Come see.”

Éowyn shook her head quickly.  “I don’t…”

“Come here.”  Chiding her playfully, trying to keep her anxiety in the realm of jest, he tugged her all the way to the side.  There, he put his arm around her, hugging tight.  He could feel the tension in her frame.  Faramir rested his chin on the top of her golden head; her hair was warm, heated by the sun as he murmured.  “Look at the water.”

“I see it.”

“It’s so far down…” He’d never ridden on any watercraft larger than a skiff and then rarely; it was more common to ride to Osgiliath and cross the bridge.  Faramir was used to barely riding above the water’s edge and to see the river gleaming many lengths of men below him was a novel sight.

“I see it.”

Repeating herself without emotion, Éowyn still sounded tense.  Faramir smiled, saying reassuringly, “We’re almost to the other bank.”  They were, the Anduin was wide, but not so wide that it took a great ship more than a minute or two to cross.  As he spoke the oars had plunged into the depths again, striking bottom with a jolt that made the whole craft shudder as it lost its freedom, chained to the earthen riverbed and inching clumsily forward.  The horses’ eyes rolled whitely, her chestnut rearing high in fear, and Éowyn jumped against him, her hands clutching his surcoat as the deck vibrated.  He hid his pleasure in her movement, catching her hand to squeeze it.  I am her comfort…  As she relaxed, he watched the sailors move about and Faramir could barely keep his fascination with the foreign commands at bay, only absently soothing, “It’s all right…” He listened fervently, wondering at each strange word.  None were spoken in the melodious elvish of Dol Amroth, but instead a new rough tongue of Men.  Men I have not heard or read of…and he’d studied nearly every book that lay within or had crossed through his City, spent hours in the merchants quarters, searching for said books, queried dozens of men he’d found wandering in Ithilien or Minas Tirith!  How can that be?  Faramir glanced around himself, feeling for a moment that Boromir had had the right idea—books were useless.  Slightly melancholy, he hugged her taut form again.  “Another moment…” 

“My feet are more used to solid ground.”  She licked dry lips and nodded at the unstrung animals, their heads tossing and hooves skittering loudly over the planks.  “Like my brothers’.”

“I do not think you would like the Sea.”

“Not from a boat…”

He corrected her, “Ship.”

Éowyn finished with a shiver, “This big.”  He could sense her thoughts moving below his awareness to read them, but her emotions had become clearer—definite agitation, tension, some fear of the unknown intermixed with…trust, of me. 

He smiled and let out a deep breath.  She turned, craning her neck to look up at him.  Her voice was soft, somehow sad.  “I would like to see the Sea.”

Faramir smiled at her, delighted, “Then we will go soon.”  He couldn’t help adding, softening, “After we are wed.”

She nodded, but he caught the feel of her sadness again.  The ship coasted forward, then halted with another shudder.  Shouts heralded the plank’s being thrown to the opposite bank; the freed slaves led the horses down again, barely keeping them from bolting across the rattling wood.  Once down, the poor beasts pawed and snorted at the grass, nearly ecstatic to feel land under their hooves again.  As Éowyn slipped from his arm and just as quickly down to the familiar earth, Faramir hung back, looking around and above himself at a maze of rigging and sails.  He felt an overwhelming urge to learn and sighed.  Not today…  His footfalls seemed to resound with dejection as he walked down the long, wide strip of wood to take the reins of his bay from a smiling man.  The man was clearly one of the former slaves, clothed in rough, coarse fabric, face scarred, his arms thickly muscled and his hands so heavily callused from rowing that Faramir marveled that he could feel at all.  He bowed, grinning jovially, and Faramir smiled in return, “Thank you.”  The man answered in his rough, foreign tongue, nodding merrily before turning and loping back up the plank. 

Beregond and his mount joined their party and they waved at the sailors and former captives lining the rails of the ship, calling thanks.  His Captain turned to him, saying quietly, “I have arranged that they will return this evening, my Lord.”

Faramir brightened.  “Good.”  As the great ship reversed its course, he swung clumsily aboard his mount, finding Éowyn had already done so.  For a moment, he just looked about himself, orienting.  “This way first, I want to show you a little cavern, one I’ve spent many cold, wet nights sheltering in…” Her smile was somewhat lacking, but it spurred his determination all the more.  She will see how beautiful my land can be…and that shall change her heart…with the two guards holding position behind them, they rode swiftly into the hills.

My apologies for only posting this chapter...but I wanted you to know that I was still alive!  This semester has been very difficult so far.  I do have 7 and 75 begun and hopefully I will be able to find time to finish and post them soon.  Thank you for your patience.