Her chestnut galloped roughly into Ithilien and Éowyn was hard-pressed to keep him from bucking at first so lively was his mood to leave the frightening boat, ship, behind.  She put her weight into her stirrups, ignoring her weak legs to balance herself over his withers, keeping her back erect, her hands light but firm on the reins.  Using her seat and still cursedly impotent legs, she told him to keep his spirits within check. 

His back lifted some, head dropping in effort, but she did not let him drop it far, soon insisting that he lift it and get on with his business.  “Come along…” The country about her looked just as verdant as it had from the Pelennor and Éowyn smiled with pleasure as the unscathed, long-stemmed grass tickled the soles of her boots.  It also tickled her gelding’s belly; he finally bucked and then snorted, longing to rid himself of his burdens—saddle, bridle, rider—and frolic.  Éowyn could understand; his flared nostrils were filled no longer with soot and decay, but the green smell of young grasses and wild, open air.  “No, no, lad, be a good lad…” Prattling, she clucked and rocked in the saddle, moving her horse nearer to Faramir’s bay, keeping her gelding close within his wake and under control.

On the top of a grassy ridge, the River already shrunk to a slender chocolate ribbon below them, her Prince slowed and halted.  Their horses were puffing and shaking their heads to be freed.  He looked back and forth over the country, then smiled at her.  “It’s easier with the stars; I’m used to moving under the cover of darkness, but…” Despite his frown, he was clearly full of enthusiasm.  Éowyn smiled again and felt her stomach turn with guilt.

Today, she could put it off no longer.  Today, tonight…he would not look so blithe later, so she soaked up his bright smile, his lightsome grin as he urged his horse into a gallop down the hill, up two more and then down a long slope past multiple small groves of bent trees, their roots clinging to the hillside.  It was shady here beneath a giant cloud and pale rocks rose above the earth; she slowed her horse, carefully steering him over the uneven footing.  “Good lad…” Éowyn patted his sweating neck in rhythm to his strides, her gaze fixed on the ground. 

When she looked away from the earth, Faramir had disappeared into a maze of thickets that had sprung up in what Éowyn now saw was a long, shallow basin surrounded by sloping hills.  Hoof prints led her still further into the thin forest.  Before the trees closed in, she turned, but saw no River, no hint of the City.  How swiftly we are lost…her spirit felt an odd kinship with this wilder land, clearly untouched.  Her horse tossed his head to fight for his freedom and Éowyn laughed, standing in the stirrups to stare and feast her eyes upon naught by herbage, relishing the lack of high walls and stone.  Faramir’s guards exchanged quiet glances, but did not remark; how unlike the men of her land they were!

Soon she’d crossed the little wood and followed fresh prints onward; Faramir must have galloped ahead.  A narrow stream ran along the deepest part of the dale and the embankment above it was steeper than the others, liberally studded with the pale stone common in the South.  Where is he?  Self-consciousness kept her from crying out his name.  Reaching the stream’s banks, Éowyn was relieved to see that they were muddied and tracked; she was still going the correct way.  Heated, her chestnut drank and pawed the water up to cool his belly and flanks before she urged him out of it, still following hoof marks she hoped belonged to Faramir’s bay, steering about slim boughed trees and high brush. 

The sun was bright, but the basin was empty save for grass and thickets of trees.  Nervous, for it had been a minute since she’d seen her Prince, she reined in her mount and turned this way and that, bracing herself on the saddle, unsure.  Her voice wavered on the warm, unmoving air, “Faramir?”

The two guards halted their geldings close to hers and she sensed the distress that lay behind their stoical features before her Prince spoke, “Here” and stepped into view.  His nearness startled her chestnut into a sideways jerk.  As she steadied her mount, he frowned.  “My apologies.”  Éowyn sighed a great breath of relief. 

There is nothing to fear, when will you learn that?

“The cave is here, hidden to keep anyone but my men from finding it.”  He beamed, walking into the leafy copse with all the natural grace, self-possession and familiarity of a wolf within its home grounds.  His quick, easy stride struck her, hard to reconcile with the image of a man she’d only seen in civilized settings.  As she dismounted, Faramir called back, “Beregond?”

“My Lord?”  His Captain rode forth at once.

“Which of you has the cloaks, the torches?”  The guards conferred and soon were striking together flint and steel, carefully aiming the spark onto the torch. 

Loosening her mount’s girth, Éowyn watched and marveled—Faramir lifted the torch with the ease of familiarity.  He’d always seemed so cultured, but his familiarity with the primitive implements belayed all her earlier impressions.  Perhaps there are other things I do not know or have guessed wrongly about…angered by her doubts, even after you see his charity, his mercy! she shook her head so hard that her hair whipped her face and commanded her coward’s heart harshly.  Be silent!  Her teeth gritted and she added tensely, bother me no more!

Faramir held up his burning brand and gazed at it critically, making sure it burned correctly.  Its flame seemed weak in the bright sunlight and Éowyn wondered where the cavern was.  She could see no dark mouth anywhere.  “Here, for the chill.”  Smiling fondly, her Prince gestured to his escort that he should hand her a cloak, one of his, she guessed for it was worn by use and dragged the ground behind her. 

Though she had a moment’s trouble with the foreign clasp, Éowyn was surprised at how good it felt around her shoulders, how it smelled somehow like the pale stone of his City, like him and comforted her.  “Thank you.”  She pulled the long edges, holding them so they would not trip her up.  Feeling like a girl again, Éowyn smiled and hugged the worn garment to her chest, an unaccustomed sense of lightheartedness flooding her spirits and brightening them.  Perhaps it was this country; it’s green emptiness that made her feel so…at home.   Éowyn gazed at Faramir as he attempted to clasp his own cloak with only one hand.  It could be home…  Not knowing how that made her feel, save great anxiety amid a deep sorrow with both rising to choke her, she shook her head and dismissed the idea.  Not see the Golden Hall, not hear the tongue of my folk raised in song or ride through snows so deep my horse might have well as been swimming?  Impossible.  All of Faramir’s efforts were almost pathetically fruitless and she was about to step forward and aid him when his Captain spoke,

“My Lord?  If you would allow me?”

“Aye.”  Relief shone on Faramir’s face as Beregond fastened the clasp with a deft, delicately respectful touch, inclining his head as he stepped back.  “Thank you.”  He turned to her with an affectionate smile, “Come, my love, this way.” 

Her heart blanched guiltily at the endearment.  Faramir and his flickering torch led her a short distance into the nearest thicket; she could see no trace of a path, but his strides were confident.  Kneeling at the base of a tree, he brushed aside a few thick, low-hanging branches and the black mouth of a cavern was revealed. 

“Oh.”  She started, surprised at how the dark opening seemed to spring up into being, so well was it concealed from passing folk.

“I told you it was hidden.  I wouldn’t want it infested with orcs or ruffians, would I?”  His grin was crooked, delighted.  Éowyn smiled a little in return, unable to not respond to his high spirits. 

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Now, let me,” He grinned again, “Act lordly and…” A cool breeze hit her in the face before Faramir’s body blocked it.  “Here, my Lady, it is to your convenience.”  He twisted to the side and considerately held the branches, pressing his backside against the limbs and mashing them to the tree so that she could enter with ease. 

Éowyn ducked inside, chest tight under the gleam of his smile, “Thank you.”  It was large enough that she only had to stoop; the entrance was rough, nearly wild looking, strewn with small, craggy rocks, gritty dirt and dead leaves, but after a few steps the floor became sandy and clear.  She could not see far, perhaps a few lengths before the light faded entirely and there was only blackness.  She gazed into the darkness, unease rising in her belly, knowing that she did not particularly wish to enter the cave’s murky passage, to brave the blackness or the icy gusts that made her hair and borrowed cloak flap.  The slap of tree limbs and the light dimming meant she was not alone.  Immediately, Éowyn relaxed, turning to take in the torch’s glowing light with greedy eyes. 

“Ah, look at that.”  Coming to her side, Faramir sounded displeased, kicking a bit of charred wood.  “They are to leave no sign.”  She glanced around, but could see little to indicate the cave had ever been used, much less multiple times, before her eyes adjusted to the torch’s flickering orange light. 

Ah…there was a residue of soot on the ceiling and the dirt was blackened in a few spots from too hastily buried fire pits.  Behind a hollow in the stone, cords of wood were stacked to keep them dry along with a half-full skin of water and a wrapped bit of leather; she guessed it held food or primitive medicine for burns, infections, bee stings or snake bites: yarrow, wild lettuce, thyme.  Éowyn smiled briefly, pleased at her quick memory.  Beside her, Faramir scowled at the remains of a campsite and muttered to himself about discipline.  Suddenly he laughed and turned,

“It doesn’t matter any longer, does it?”

“No.”  She smiled again, knowing what he meant and sharing his rueful glance.  Sheepish and full of softly amused humility, Faramir grinned and moved further into the dim, rocky cave.  As they made their way from the broad, sandy floor, the ground sloped downward and became dangerous.  Éowyn started as he brushed her arm in a quick and awkward touch, unable to clutch her with his broken hand, the other holding their torch. 

“Take care.” 

“I will.”  Nervously hearing the warmth in his voice, she exhaled and paused to survey the floor of the cave.  It was increasingly littered with rocks and small but unpredictable protrusions, like some enchanted child had piled earth up, clay that had hardened in the sun to knee-high minarets of slick, creamy stone.  A drop of water hit her cheek and Éowyn started.  Over her head were petite, dripping stalactites that dripped infinitesimally slowly either onto the protrusions that sought to trip her or into tiny puddles ringed with the orangish color of minerals.  Pretty…she gazed at them before Faramir and the light passed the formations by.  Helm’s Deep was prettier, its structures larger and more ornate, but this cave was not without its share of attractions. 

Éowyn trembled as a wintry draught blew from ahead, slipping and snaking around Faramir’s wider form, making his coal-black hair whip, the edges of his cloak flap with ghostly noise.  The chill…silently thanking his tender foresight, Éowyn held the cloak tighter as they walked still deeper into the cave, following a long, twisting passage.  Cold seemed to seep from the very walls around her; above her head were long, contorted slivers of rock stained in shades of coppery red, peach, dulled grey and whitish yellow.  They looked frail, positioned to fall and skewer her.  Spiders and insects ran, scurrying down the walls to hide in crevices as she passed.  As her foot sent a stone skipping ahead, there was a flutter of wings that made her squeak with fear and draw closer to her Prince’s back; the leathery swishes and thrashes sounded horribly akin to the flapping mantle that the foul wraith had borne. 

He turned to glance at her and she gasped, ducking low with another twitter of fear—a few bats had fallen from secret nooks and swooped over their heads.  Luckily the stringy things winged out of the cave, not eager to battle Faramir’s bravely upraised torch.  He did not look frightened, merely ducking his shoulders a bit while shaking the burning brand at the creatures until they swirled by in a cloud of squealing darkness.

Watching the bats flee in their whirling fashion, Éowyn noticed that the guards had not joined them and her apprehension did not fade but instead grew.  Why are we here?  If he had a tryst in mind, this was the perfect spot.  She clutched the cloak’s ragged edges, becoming more aware of the dark, the chill, her throat tightening in the oppressive, almost cage-like feel of the cave.  He has his wrap, his maiden, his privacy…her teeth ground, her soul wrestling between trust and misgiving.  He could do whatever he wished to me and none would know…she shuddered and glanced back at the mouth of the cave, having to peer about a spider-silk covered wall.  At once Éowyn blinked, seeing the bright sunlight through the tree’s limbs, utterly amazed at how small the opening appeared.  One of the guards moved across it, making the passage around her dim considerably.  Could they even hear me if I screamed?  She hesitated, watching Faramir move forward.

Coward, what would you scream at?  His chaste kiss?  A few fond words?  An endearment?  Éowyn felt acid hatred boil up from her belly to scorch her throat.  Coward, wretched coward, you are allowing that worm to manage you still!  You shame your blood…thankfully her Prince spoke, stopping her inner rebukes.

“Around this bend…”

Obeying an impulse, she stretched out her hands and met clammy rock walls.  Close…it is so close in here!  Éowyn caught her breath, chest heaving, breathing cold, moist air that smelled strongly of rock, rusty metal.  She didn’t like the smell, the cold or the darkness, the rough walls so close and making her feel confined, trapped without recourse.  The caves at Helm’s Deep had been vast, not at all tight like this one.  What is here?

Many paces ahead of her, Faramir frowned, halting to turn and caution, “I cannot help you, my hand…be careful, the footing is perilous.”  Éowyn nodded, not sure where they were going or why.  Her eyes caught a dazzling gleam in the next chamber, which seemed extraordinarily large compared to the twisty tunnel they were in.  Watching it eagerly, she followed him, moving faster and no longer paying attention to her footing.  She’d even forgotten to hold onto her cloak and almost immediately stepped upon the long, ragged ends, jerking the garment tight.  Off balance, Éowyn listed back into the darkness that rimmed Faramir’s torch and blundered against the unyielding rock wall, scraping her palm in an attempt to gain purchase.  At her yelp of self-disgust, Faramir turned.  “Are you all right?”

He sounded terribly concerned and her disgust grew.  I fear this man?  “Yes, yes.”  Éowyn blew on her burning palm, shaking it.  

“Careful…” Faramir watched her come, holding his light high to give her what illumination he could.  She was very near when she stumbled over a narrow crevice hiding within his long shadow.  Éowyn cursed loudly in her native tongue, feeling herself teeter.

But Faramir moved then, leaping forward with smooth grace.  His grey eyes, dim in the torchlight, held hers as he dropped the brand to grasp onto her forearm, pulling her close and keeping her from falling.  Éowyn held him back, grateful, gasping, “Thank you—” Nearby, the torch thudded to the gravelly floor of the cave and rolled, its mossy cap shredding and cheery flame dying into messy smoke and guttering one last time before leaving them in blackness so complete it was shocking.

Immediately panic rose, a grey, numbing wave.  No…please…she couldn’t see anything but the gloom, couldn’t feel anything but cold clamminess.  The wraith…  Her lungs refused to fill.  Éowyn felt herself grow rigid in his one-armed embrace and rasped out, her heart pounding in her throat, “Call for…for one of your guards now.”  Light, call for light!

“It’s all right, Éowyn…” He sounded alarmed, but not as much as she. 

He’d spent days under the same dark spell; did he not remember the cold blackness, the helplessness?  She shuddered.  “Call!”  Desperate, Éowyn hissed it again through gritted teeth and he stepped away, his hand reluctantly falling from her side.

“I will…” He paused, then soothed, “We’re in no danger.”  Still close to her, but no longer touching, Faramir asked more intently, “What’s wrong?” 

What’s wrong with you?  Éowyn heard the question inside his question and clasped her arms across her body, silently echoing it.  What was wrong with her?  She wished he’d not moved away, now she couldn’t even take comfort from his nearness. 

He hesitated and she could hear his deep inhalation, “It’s just very dark, I’m here…” But his words were too uncertain to reassure.

She licked dry lips and ordered, “Call for your guards now, tell them to bring light.”  Why does he not call?  He does not call for them, does he not want them to come? 

Oh, you idiot…  Inside herself she was divided, each side hardening into equal parts suspicion and fear, and sharp fury at that suspicion and fear.  He is kindly, you thrice-damned fool, and you would let the one good man go and keep the foul one in your heart forever, coward!

But Faramir finally obeyed, raising his voice to bellow, “Beregond!  We need light!” 

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a rush.  See?  You fear nothing!  Old ghosts that trailed your footsteps, dread, pain, terrible silence…

His hand reached out, fingertips touching her forearm.  When she did not protest, he groped slowly along her arm to clasp her hand as he asked softly, “What is it?”  Her Prince squeezed her fingers, “Don’t be afraid,” He brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, “Don’t…are you hurt?”  Faramir turned her palm up and ran his fingertips over the fiery scrape there.

“Ow!  Yes…yes, a little, just a scratch from the rock.”  She swallowed hard, fighting herself.  Éowyn let out her breath, her eyes straining against the absence of light that surrounded her; “It’s dark…” It was utterly black in the cave.

“I know.”  His voice was above her, giving reassurance now.  Faramir shifted his stance, coming a little closer and she allowed herself to find him with an outstretched hand, to embrace him, then rest against his front, lying her head to his chest and breathing unsteadily.  As long as she could feel him, she could prove that she was not back within the wraith’s dreadful dream, couldn’t she?

Tremors filling her words, Éowyn whispered, “I don’t like the dark…and it’s cold in here.  Don’t you remember…when…when it was dark, before Aragorn came…before his voice…?” 

“Yes.”  He was pleasantly warm and firm, his able arm clasping her waist.  Faramir’s chest moved as he inhaled, answering more raggedly.  “Yes, yes…I do.”  For just a moment his chest surged against her with a deep shuddering breath, and the iciness of fear made his voice thin.  “Aye…I do.”

She could see nothing, but closed her eyes anyway, oddly comforted by this break in his calm, princely demeanor.  There is nothing to fear from him, nothing at all.  Éowyn took a quaking breath, tears rising, feeling like some dim bird was winging up and out of her breast, taking her doubt with it.  Nothing to fear…if he had intentions, this would be where he acted upon them, and he has none, you know it.  She took another short stride, pressing herself to him, waiting with aching heart. 

“It’s all right…it won’t be like that again, ever, anywhere, you slayed…that thing, remember?”  Speaking softly, Faramir did nothing but adjust the arm that lay about her waist, awkwardly holding her with it. 

Yes.  She hugged him tight, as she’d never done, taking comfort in his strength, his body.  “You would…” She wanted to ask if he would keep to his insistences of intimacy, would hold onto her pledge of union no matter what her conscious drove her to argue…but fell silent at the last moment. 

“What?”  Faramir had lowered and she felt his warm breath stirring her hair.  Éowyn’s skin prickled, abruptly aware that they were alone in the dark and that she’d never been alone in darkness with a man who was not her kin.  His hand rubbed in a small circle at the small of her back, comfortingly, brotherly, but his voice let her know that he, too, was aware of what she’d only just noticed—and he sought to reassure her before she could take fright.  “Don’t worry, Beregond will be here in a moment…I have the flint and steel with me, they’re kindling a fire by might alone, I imagine.”  Faramir murmured soothingly, “It will take them time to gather wood, tinder, to spin it into a flame…” Éowyn felt herself relax, almost able to picture the scenario he described. 

She frowned, looking upwards to where she knew his face was.  “If he couldn’t hear you?”

Again, he spoke in a low, pacifying rumble.  “Then we’ll attempt to find our torch and you may relight it…or we shall find our way out, step by step, hand in hand.”  He chuckled, “Looking like fools.”  Éowyn smiled.

“Yes.”

“At least I shall.”  Nearly inaudibly, he laughed.  Faramir took a breath, “Then I’ll show you what I came to show you.”

She’d forgotten her nervousness and the darkness, captured by the warm blur, the comforting roll and tumble of his exotic, beautiful Southern voice.  “What was that?”

“The next room.  It is small and its walls are laced in some pearly stone, with the light of the torch it is like standing inside a sunset…” Faramir paused and she heard his simultaneous embarrassment and hope, “I like to think it is…enchanting.”

“Oh.”  There was only the feel of his body against hers, the sense of his masculinity, pleasing in a new way as she snuggled closer.  Perhaps he would release her, perhaps not; she rather hoped not, but she had to argue her case, give him the choice of a better woman.  Éowyn frowned.  I would not have him look at me with disgust, with regret…  She shivered, only now thinking of that horrible option.  In response, Faramir hugged her tighter with his able arm.

He added, “Beyond that is the white forest, stone charmed somehow into shapes of trees.  And stone that looks like castles of old with towers and walls, pools of water like moats about them.”  Faramir smiled, she could hear it, “When I was younger and more fanciful, I would dream that little fairies lived in the stone and fought wars…the moats always seemed to grow deeper, the rocks ringed with red like spilt blood.”  He laughed, then continued, “Hidden in the corners are the hideous lumpy backs of trolls, warts and all.  Perhaps they murdered my fairies, or merely terrorized them…I never saw so much as one and I have spent many nights in this cave.” 

She smiled against his cloak, thinking he was speaking this delightful nonsense to distract her. 

“Many nights…” Faramir’s chest expanded against her front.  “Lonely nights, not knowing if I would ever not be so…” Éowyn was silent, abruptly conscious of his hand.  It was rubbing her back still, but less in a brotherly fashion, now higher and with more pressure.  Faramir’s slow, thoughtful comment made her doubly tongue-tied, listening timidly.  “Naught for companionship save my bow, my sword, my bedroll.  Wood and steel cannot warm a man’s heart.”  After a moment, he leaned low and kissed the top of her head with a soft chuckle, squeezing her with his able arm.

Éowyn stared at the dark and smiled weakly, unsure. 

Nuzzling her hair, Faramir asked, “Are you all right?”  He sounded lighthearted but searchingly so, trying to see if he would be rejected or not.

She leaned her brow against his collar, feeling his arm about her, perfectly chaste, perfectly reassuring.  There would be nothing less from her Prince and now there was nothing for her to fear but…everything else.  Éowyn stirred, feeling a bit of unease.  It was very dark and they were alone.  But still…fairies!  “I think…yes.” 

“Mm.”  Faramir’s kiss pressed itself to her temple, his arm loosening as she pulled away to tilt up her chin.  She kept her eyes closed, not able to use them anyhow.  His warm, blunt-tipped fingers touched her jaw, then slid down, tickling her throat and making her laugh a little, conscious of her pulse throbbing.  He smoothed her hair back from her shoulder, each movement careful.  Faramir’s hand rose just a little, his thumb brushing her lips, finding them, managing to do so without poking her. 

 With his soft inhalation, Éowyn knew what would come next and gooseflesh rose over her arms.  She liked his kisses, his touches, why couldn’t she relax and realize that all his fondling would be the same as that he did now—gentle, considerate, pleasurable?  Relax, relax, if she’d managed to stay this long in pure darkness without bolting and breaking her fool neck, what was she still worrying about?  Her chest loosened, her arms less tight about his middle.  Nothing.  Lifting up, she slid her arms around his neck, hugging him closely, enjoying the press of his body to hers.  As she did, he found her lips and to her surprise, she felt his smile before anything. 

The curiosity of it caused her to pull back, then return, smiling self-consciously.  Faramir chuckled against her mouth, warm breaths melting into modest kisses; he was clearly satisfied by her action.  Éowyn returned the smile the first chance she got, making his reappear and widen. 

This was new and pleasant.  She liked knowing she pleased him, he deserved happiness.  My Prince, my good Prince…he laughed softly against her cheek, sounding very happy.  Mine…her arms tightened around his neck.  Do not let me loose, do not…Éowyn closed her eyes as her urgency grew, hugging him tightly, fearful that he might be too kind in heart.  Do not…  He clasped her closer in return, turning to her neck and burying his face against her skin.  First he held her, simply hugging body to body, her own nose against the line of his bent shoulder, then Faramir inhaled and withdrew just far enough to kiss, scorching her with his hot, suckling mouth as it pulled strongly, marking her again.  “Oh…” It felt so good, so deliciously good that she moaned involuntarily, the wanton sound sneaking from her before she could muffle it.  Hearing herself, she flushed; he drew in a soft breath, then bent back to his task with more vigor. 

Her brother would see and scowl, but it was not worth stopping Faramir for even a moment.  Éowyn felt dizzy in the dark and grasped onto his surcoat to steady herself.  The movement didn’t help; she was dizzy from more than disorientation, legs tottery from the intertwined desire and confusion that arose from his advances.  With the utter darkness around them, her remaining senses were magnified so that his touch was a thunderclap on a silent night, her skin prickling and astir in the wake of his fingertips, his lips.  The very sound of his breath made her thrill, the rough inhalations, breathy little noises she rarely noticed, the infinitesimal, yet obscene pop or smack when he withdrew, breaking the seal of his lips to her skin. 

Faramir smiled against her neck, the only way she could know now that he did smile was to feel it against some part of her bared skin, and Éowyn was glad of the darkness.  It kept her from seeing just how much light was in his eyes at the moment, how much bliss. 

He was seeking entry again, kissing her with more and more eagerness, pressing his mouth to hers and letting her sense his heat.  Persuaded and feeling strangely emboldened by the darkness, Éowyn let her lips part just the tiniest bit and he slowed at once, recognizing her bare allowance.  Faramir smiled against her mouth, encouraging her.  Carefully, she allowed him to kiss her as he’d always liked to try, to slip his tongue to hers and use his mouth to gently open hers.  The texture and landscape of his was unfamiliar, making her want to laugh and grimace at once in the strangeness of it.  He chuckled as she pulled away, finding her again to kiss more chastely, once, twice before he grew impatient and eager for more. 

When she refused to similarly yield, withholding her mouth and shaking her head, he dropped to give attention to her throat, her collarbone, the cup of her ear, trailing kisses, pressing a smile into her skin at the junction of neck and shoulder.  Éowyn hugged his neck and marveled that her brief surrender had delighted him so much.  Am I so cold to his thinking…? 

She frowned as Faramir nibbled at her earlobe, taking it into his mouth.  After a moment or two, he murmured in a voice of husky fondness, “Do you like this?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn opened her eyes and saw only darkness.  She swallowed, closing them once more and pulling him closer, not caring if she gave him notions.  The darkness beneath her eyelids was better than the coldness that surrounded her; here she could pretend that when she peeked she would see his warm grey eyes, his handsome face looking down at her.

“Good.”  He was meeting her prim kisses and soon surpassing them.  Faramir pressed his mouth to hers over and over in warm kisses that were as obediently chaste as she liked, but lingering, terribly stirring with soft, breathless desire, as though he were determined to break her detachment in any way he could think.  The naked fervor of his actions made her clutch his broad shoulders, thinking her body was a beast slowly awakened, shaking and stirring, rising from its maiden’s slumber to heed his voiceless enticement. 

Oh, nice, wonderful…she felt intoxicated, no longer noticing the chill of the cave, paying no heed to anything but Faramir’s eager minstrations.  As she gripped him, he seemed encouraged; Éowyn felt him nudge the collar of her man’s shirt downward with his furry chin, mouth touching the skin above the furrow between her breasts.  “Faramir…”

“What is it?”  Faramir stopped at once and they breathed together, quicker than normal, faces close; she felt his hair tickle her cheek as his forehead clunked softly against hers.  “Are you frightened to be with me, here, alone…?” His voice sounded oddly tremulous, possessing a new quality, a vulnerability; or maybe she simply heard it now since she was blind in this lightless cave.  “In the dark?”

Éowyn tried to still her thudding heart.  “No.  I don’t know.” 

 “I like that answer.”

“You do?”  Incredibly, she could hear his smile again.  He seemed to smile more when she yielded to his caresses.  Éowyn’s lips tightened, compressing in frustration.  Is this the only way to please him, to yield to his body, his heart?  He is too much for me…he goes too swift, desires too much…she swallowed, feeling overwhelmed. 

Faramir nodded and let his brow rest against hers again, “Much better than a yes.  You even said no first.”  His arm hugged her as he laughed in warm encouragement.

Éowyn leaned against him, troubled, pleased, confused.  “Yes…”

        “What can I do…?” His hand rubbed her back, “To make it no forever?”

        “I don’t know.”  He’d asked this before.  Faramir sighed deeply and dropped his forehead to rest against her shoulder in a movement that startled her, it was so natural. 

She could feel his quickened breathing against her neck; he was just as nervous as she, plainly more nervous as he swallowed and his throat clicked loudly in their silence.  Poor man…he did not know how she would react, if some dainty caress would spark fear and inspire her to further wound him.  Pity rushed into her heart as his hand rubbed gently, up and down, smooth and firm. 

Éowyn was still, knowing she liked the delicate touch and that it made warmth spread under her skin, a thick and deep sort of peace.  Just from…he was barely touching her!  She laughed at herself for being a fool, then again—tittering laughter was surely not the reaction he was hoping for.

But he was smiling when Faramir’s mouth met hers, kissing more tenderly than he’d done since the first kiss they’d shared.  Her laughter had relieved him; no longer did she perceive his hesitation.  Confident now, his hand slipped upward a fraction, the wide palm of it slowly caressing and not simply up and down along her spine, but over her shoulders, her waist, the low curve of her hip.  Their kiss broke apart and she felt him withdraw slightly, in case she was displeased.  “Are you…?”

He didn’t finish as Éowyn closed the distance, standing on tiptoe to kiss further, spine and belly taut.  What he was doing was certainly not a threat.  But it made her tingle, made her awareness shrink to just that ticklish little sensation, especially when his hand slid upwards, thumb lightly tracing through her men’s shirt, rubbing in little patterns, back and forth along the small of her back.  Faramir left his hand there, lying still with possessive pressure as he asked, voice huskier, somehow more male now,

        “Are you afraid?”

        Éowyn was acutely aware of her chest, almost for the first time it seemed, conscious of her breasts and their fullness, small as she was.  Her hips, too, held her attention, her whole body felt newly alive as he hugged her.  As she sought words, his hand moved anew, caressing her in his deliberate, virtuous fashion and she fell still, enjoying it; if he’d moved to touch her in a brash hand, she might have jerked away, but this delicate little outset was perfect. 

Faramir’s soft breath meant he was waiting. 

She licked dry lips, honest.  “No.  No.” 

        “Good.”  Slowly, with kisses that lingered agreeably, he took back his hand, leaving her to quiver inside, stirred in new ways that would take her time to sort out.  Éowyn felt like she’d come alive, fully aware of herself, of him, buzzing inside, filled with the beat and motion of wings of awed delight and instinctive caution.  His nose brushed hers, their mouths aligning easily, practiced now.  Faramir was smiling as he whispered, “Good.  Very good.” 

“Yes.”  Answering bashfully, laughing, she smiled in return, knowing he could feel it against his lips.  He reached for her, pressing a soft, partially open kiss to her mouth and she tried not to retreat at the strangeness of it.  Faramir was so warm, so eager to experience intimacy; it was all so different. 

“It’s all right…do you…not like…?”  Éowyn shook her head, but did not speak, helpless to respond.  He nodded and his lowered arm slid forward and around her middle to squeeze her waist, pulling their bodies closer.  This time he kissed only simply, the chaste press of lips she was more comfortable with and leaned his temple to her brow.  Faramir’s nose brushed hers, his smile touching her skin, their stance intimate, close, little to no space between their bodies.  Her feet were between his widespread ones and she could sense the movements of his chest to breathe.  Éowyn adjusted her arms, slipping them about his neck again, discovering that she enjoyed this, the closeness. 

Admitting it took more effort.  “I…I like this.”  She felt foolish, mortified by the admittance though it would doubtlessly make him very happy.

“Good.”  His next word was unfamiliar, so that she wondered.  It sounded like the elven tongue for he murmured it with lilting grace, yet it bore an abundance of emotion: shyness, tender affection.  She felt the silvery thrill, then warmth of it even as the word itself floated musically from his lips to her ear, “Vanimelda…”

Éowyn frowned, wanting to know what he’d said.  Like his elvish story, this made her spirit stir; unlike it, this word made her feel close and loved.  “Wh—”

He muttered one last time in the elven tongue, “Umin hanya, vanimelda.  Umin hanya…”

This sounded more like a plea, again ended in that word that kindled her heart.  “What…what did you say?”

        Before he could do more than sigh, there was a clatter of boots on loose stone, making them both jump, then a flickering light that hurt her eyes and Beregond’s voice, “My Lord?”

        “Here.”  Faramir’s hand clasped hers and he took a step aside, putting a more proper distance between them as the light approached. Éowyn ducked, tossing her hair to lie over her neck and pulling up the ragged cloak to cover the fresh marks, her chin dipped in sudden modesty. 

        What was I doing…?  She sighed in regret, twisting her hand into the cloak’s many excess folds with an inexplicable sort of contrite pleasure.  Encouraging him.   

Offering the second torch, Beregond looked at them strangely, but asked no questions and Faramir offered no answers, instead relighting the dropped brand and handing it to his guard with a quiet word of thanks.  Éowyn smiled as he turned to her and a slow, delighted grin came to his face in reply.  “Come, its not much farther.”  Tugging her hand, he led her forward, picking the way with care.

***

He watched her face discreetly as they entered the next chamber, the first real chamber in the long, narrow and twisted cave.  Éowyn’s eyes glistened, pupils widening until her pale irises were all but invisible; her cheeks and brow were glowing in the torchlight.  The orangish gleam reflected on the opalescent stone imbedded in the walls around them, then back to her skin, making her face rosy now, her hair ocher.  “Oh…I see how it makes the light red.”  She smiled and he did, too, glancing at her hand wrapped around his arm.  She held onto his elbow because she could not hold his broken hand and she touched him so freely now for more comfort than anything, he guessed.  Faramir was not a fool, but it was nice, regardless. 

Gazing at her as she turned to take in the room, he felt his heart swell.  He’d pushed her a little further with his caresses and not been disappointed in either response or relaxation; indeed, Éowyn had seemed to take the same enjoyment he did in their closeness and touches.  Perhaps that is all she needs…a push…he frowned, unsure.  If I push too hard, she might flee further and I might lose ground.  Letting out a frustrated breath, Faramir sighed and briefly concentrated on the set of her mind—minute senses of surprise, awe, pleasure and curiosity.  He smiled, pleased once more to be able to touch her heart even this lightly.  Earlier she’d been near paralyzed with fear and dread; he’d felt the negative emotions slip out of her with each of his reassurances.  That, too, was gratifying.   

Éowyn touched the stone, running her fingers along the pearly trails, then turning to him with a smile.  “It’s pretty.” 

Nodding, he waited until she looked at him again, her face full of eager expectancy.  “This way.”

        “Where?”  Éowyn stared about herself, clearly at a loss.  “Back the way we came?”

        “No.”  Faramir smiled.  “I didn’t find it for quite a while.”  He led her to the back of the room, finding again the jagged, narrow breach in the wall that opened to the final chamber.  It was close, but luckily tall, so that Faramir could just slide past.  Taking a long breath, then releasing it, he sucked in his belly and flattened himself to the wall, feeling the rough rock scrape at his surcoat, grateful for the cloak and thick leather to protect his skin.  Once through, he stepped carefully aside and lifted the torch for her, lighting the way.  Other than hurrying anxiously through the confined space, Éowyn had less trouble, as he’d suspected; some of his heavier Rangers would not even been able to enter the tight passage.

        He observed her closely as she straightened her clothing and turned, lifting the torch high as he could so that she could see the miniature, fanciful kingdom.  It was worth it.  Éowyn’s eyes flew wide and a great smile appeared.  When she turned to him, her face was aglow with laughter and wonder.  “There are fairies here!”

        “I told you.”

        Her fair hair jerked as she shook her head.  “I don’t even believe in fairies!”

        “You should.”  Smiling, Faramir turned.  The bone-white forest had grown some, the mark of a tiny Lord’s good woodcraft.  Petite, shin-high trees of delicate, pale stone covered the floor, some hanging onto the sweeping rock that rose to tall spires and towers colored creamy oranges, rusty reds and burnt yellows, linked with thick, mounded walls of the same colors.  In the very center was a great snow-white citadel higher than the rest, its damp turrets nearly touching the thick, dripping ivory spears that hung from the stone roof, its banked walls sloping to the bedrock.  Faramir gazed at it and smiled with warm recognition.  My City…  “Do you see them, the castles?”

        “Yes, and one greater than the others.”  Éowyn looked to him, then the white tower that had been crudely fashioned in stone, and laughed in such a light-hearted tone that he marveled.  She crept closer, half-bent, careful not to tread on any budding trees.  Delighted by her reactions, Faramir turned his head up, gazing at the sky that hung above the castles. 

Before the silent, crude citadels were many long, shallow puddles and high above their heads were thin spears that dripped gradually down, ringing the water with red and orange.  Tiny fingers reached upwards from the pools, reddish, ocher, like bloodstained hands of raging fairy kings.  Looking quietly at the red-rimmed puddles, he spoke again the words he’d first uttered as a young Ranger sent on short trips that did not allow him far beyond the River.  “Fairy blood.”

        “Aye.”  She laughed again, gazing about herself with bright eyes.  “Show me your trolls, Faramir.”

        Ah…his heart sighed in content.  “There…and there.”  Using the torch, Faramir pointed at lumpy outcroppings in the stone; colored muddy yellow and brownish red, they looked remarkably like the hunched backs of trolls, their lumpish heads ducked and hiding shamefully in the room’s corners after glutting themselves on innocent fairies— as no troll would do.  He chuckled under his breath. 

        Éowyn was smiling with delight, crouching to peer at the delicate stone trees.  Watching her, his soul was warmed, knowing she felt the same pleasure in this place as he. 

After she’d looked all she’d liked, Faramir led her out, wincing at the brightness of the sun, pleased by her hand that kept to his arm, his elbow; she needed him, if only for comfort.  As he extinguished the torch, he asked, “Would you like to ride to another place and see what I’ve brought in my basket?”

        “Yes.”  Unbuckling her cloak to give back to his guard, Éowyn’s spirits were clearly higher than they’d been all morning.  “Yes, I would.  What is it, this new place?”  Her smile was blinding as she mounted her chestnut in a swift leap and twist, a womanly movement doubly graceful and startling to his eyes: no maiden born or bred of his City could have duplicated the feat.

        “No more than a little dale, with a spring.”  Faramir was certain the flowers would be in bloom by now and did not speak of them, keeping his secret.  Her face…so happy, so delighted…that I could make it so every minute!  He remembered the pale, unhappy maiden who’d first come to speak to him and glanced sideways, pride rising in his chest.  I have so far healed, so far coaxed warmth. 

Riding across the low, rolling hills of Ithilien’s high ground, she kept to his side.  Éowyn piqued his curiosity, occasionally glancing sideways, scrutinizing him in odd little looks that he could not decipher; riding one-handed took too much of his attention to try and ascertain her mood.  What is it…?  He smiled and she returned it, but her eyes held some solemnity now.  What is it…?  Perhaps, if he plied her with tales of his country, with wine and good food and warm sun, she might relax her guard and spill her distressing secret.  I can only try…Faramir smiled across at her again, receiving the same smile in return, the same guarded shadow.  I must try.

Loping down into the vale’s narrow mouth, he pulled up his mount with an effort and turned in the saddle, dropping his reins to brace himself with his good hand.  Éowyn’s eyes met his in curiosity, then swept around him and widened in appreciation as her horse jogged slowly forward into the thick carpet of flowers: mostly white and yellow, some scattered red or orange, tiny blue.  When they met his once more, her hands turning her gelding in a slow circle, they were full of delight.  “It’s…so beautiful.”  For some reason her voice faltered and softened with a peculiar sadness. 

        “Yes.”  He tried to recapture her fleeting exultation.  “I found this place long ago, it’s a favorite of mine.”  A shadow touched his heart, looking to the dale and seeing Boromir and himself released for a day.  He smiled faintly, hearing the clack of wooden swords, their cries as his brother indulged him with games of warriors.

        Éowyn followed him into the small dale, no more than a deep dip between hills, riding at his side again.  Her hair hid her face in a golden curtain that shifted with each movement.  “Your country is very lovely, Faramir.”

        Your, not our…Faramir tried not to be affected by her distance.  It is early yet, you push too hard!  But he desired her, yearned for his dream and it burned his heart.  Are we not plighted, is mine not yours?  Before he could answer, she continued,

        “It reminds me of my own.”  Éowyn did not speak again as they found the little knob of a hill that he remembered and dismounted, the guards doing likewise to present his basket and their cloaks before remounting and riding a short distance away, taking up self-assigned posts to the east, the west.  Faramir noted that she watched them ride up to the green ridges that edged the little dale. 

        “Sit, please.”  He found a smile, attempting to enliven her unexpected gravity, “Allow me to wait upon you.”

        “If you wish.”  Her gaze stuttered away as she seated herself gingerly upon his spread cloak, its worn wool ragged and threadbare in places.  The grass was thick as a carpet, uncountable tender shoots in shades of jade, beryl, emerald, jewels pulled into strands, plaited and charmed into wonderful, fragrant softness.  As he kneeled on his own frayed mantle and began setting out the wrapped dainties, she relaxed, leaning on one arm, then eventually lying on her back and stretching.  Éowyn sighed and tangled her fingers in the thick, lush lawn with obvious pleasure, unable to resist the indulgence. 

        Faramir set out the wine, cups and a pair of knives and glanced at her.  Her smile was warm, just peeking from under her arm.  “You are very good.”

        “No.”  He felt himself lose a bit of his tension; she’d relaxed and appeared rather pleased.  Faramir held up his bound hand for emphasis, smiling.  “You did not have to treat me, the least I could repay is a small, humble meal in my plain country.”

        “I like to treat you…I like…knowing what to do, to ease pain and heal, to do something.”  He basked in the kindness of her admittance.  “Plain.”  She sighed and stretched further, sliding down, flattening her flat body to the earth.  “It is beautiful like the Mark in spring, the Westfold, all rolling hills of flowers that slope to the river then to Wold where it is flat, so flat and the grass grows taller than a man stands…” Éowyn’s fingers tangled in the grass again, murmuring in a pensive voice.  “I could close my eyes and be home.”  Her chestnut snuffled in the distance and she smiled widely.  “I could be home.”

        “Do you miss Rohan very much?”

        “We call it the Mark.”  Éowyn took a deep breath, staring upwards to the blue sky.  “Yes.”  The smile faded and she swallowed audibly.  “Wouldn’t you miss your home if you were not in it, had not for weeks?”

        “Yes, of course.”  He longed to tell her that this was her country, that she had but to ask and he would give.  If you would but yield your painful secret, let me to soothe, only stand at my side and smile…  Faramir began unwrapping the food he’d brought from its covering of clean linen, arranging the meal between them in a pleasing order: thin cuts of cheeses, fresh bread still warm from the morning’s oven, salted meat, a tin of warm pottage, more delicate offerings: candied fruits, sweetmeats, honey-smeared bread with jams and a pat of butter.  She’d not said more and he added gently, “I have spent a great deal of time within sight of my City yet unable to return to it because of my Lord’s orders.”

Éowyn’s question was faint, her eyes closed.  “Did you grieve?”

        He sighed and set out the last of it: cloth napkins, two dishes.  “Yes.”  Faramir watched her mouth pinch, her throat move and her brow crease; she looked terribly vulnerable and he stretched out his able hand to touch her arm, to comfort…

        Unexpectedly she sat up on her elbow and took in the spread, seeming to make an effort to shake off her melancholy state.  “What is all this?”

        Withdrawing, he smiled quietly.  Under her clear enjoyment of the day, the ride and the things he’d shown her, there seemed to lie a great and distraught sort of hesitation, though he knew not what or why.  Be happy…for me…  “Our picnic.”

        Her gaze moved from item to item before meeting his, a crease forming again on her brow, this time the more natural crease of subdued merriment.  Faramir did not quite understand her amusement when she laughed at him, rolling onto her belly.  “For a Lord!”  Éowyn’s eyes sparkled so that he felt a bit of embarrassment and he admitted,

        “It is generous, yes…”

        His love was smiling, the distance and sorrow having fled from her face.  “Yes.”

        “But there is no reason we should sup like beggars.”  Faramir smiled and acknowledged, “In Henneth Annûn, a cave my Rangers frequent even larger and more beautiful than the one I just showed you, we have table and linens that would not be out of place in a Hall, fine cups and utensils…  I think it makes the pleasure of a meal greater.”  He frowned, “I might fight in hiding and wage war only when my enemy is weak in comparison to my forces, but I shall not eat or sit my table like a ruffian.”  He sighed, “I cannot explain.”

        “As you like, my Lord.”  A frown began to rise before he realized the title was no more than a jest.  Éowyn smiled and sat up, crossing her slim legs to take a bit of cheese.  For a while they did not speak, but ate in silence, the guards within sight, occasionally trotting about the area in a wide sweep, making sure that none would come upon them unwittingly.  Éowyn had lain back again, propping herself up on her elbows and was nibbling at a sliver of salted meat.  Faramir watched her and remarked,

        “You eat awfully little.”

        “No more or less than other Ladies I’ve seen in your City.”  Her glance held a hint of defensiveness. 

        Does she think I compare her to them and find fault?  Faramir was disturbed by the guarded shadow that he could see in her face and perceive within his limited sense of her mind.  “Would you not help me finish?”  He gestured to the wide spread of foodstuffs, pretending ignorance to her mood.

        Éowyn eyed him carefully, then nodded, drinking from her cup and plucking up a sweetmeat with quick fingers.  “Aye, if you want help.”

        “I do.”  Again they ate in silence, but this silence seemed more comfortable.  She returned his warmly smiling glances, sometimes looking away with shyness and ducking her head so that her long, golden hair fell across her face and hid her from him.  She tossed it back in a smooth gesture, licking fingers messed with butter and jam, smiling at him whenever she acknowledged his stare.  Éowyn seemed to like his looks, her mouth pressed firm to withhold laughter, finally giggling under her breath and turning away to their guards who still maintained their posts with no sign of impatience.

“They are good men.”

“Aye, the Guards are well-trained, the highest of our servicemen save those who stand before the Tree or Elessar.”  He spared them a glance, uninterested in any but the woman before him. 

“They do not complain at all, even when we linger…” 

“No, they would not think to do so.”  She’d noted his stare again and flushed.  Faramir smiled.

Éowyn compressed her lips, twisting them in an effort not to laugh.  “What?”

He grinned, playfully echoing, “What?”

Her control broke; laughing and slapping her thigh, she asked again, “What?”

 Faramir was captivated by the shy pleasure he could tell she took in their banter, his admiring glances.  At the moment her sadness seemed very far away.  Leaning forward, he handed her a bit of honey-covered bread.  “Here, I cannot have more.”

        “Ah, yes, you must keep your warrior’s shape.”  Her eyes danced. 

He laughed, surprised by the jest, feeling her fingers brush his as she delicately took the sweetly laden bread.  “Yes, yes.”

“And what of my maiden’s shape?”

Faramir carefully replied in an equally light voice.  “It could use some honey-bread.”

Curiously, she looked at him and her free hand self-consciously touched her thighs, rubbing them in a pretense of smoothing her trousers.  “Could it?”  Éowyn ate the piece in several slow bites, savoring them. 

“Aye.”  He lifted another slice thickly coated with golden honey, bits of comb floating in the rich covering of sweetness.  “More?”  Faramir warned, “It will go to waste.”

“All right.”  Gingerly, she took the thing and bit into it.  “Mm…too much!”  Honey dripped down her chin, her cheeks.  Éowyn giggled, catching golden drops with her fingers, her hands attempting to hold the sagging bread.  “Help me!”  On impulse, Faramir leaned over and kissed her lightly, tasting the sweetness of honey.  First withdrawing some in astonishment, Éowyn smiled in an encouraging fashion, the honey pooling on her palms as she laughed and desperately cupped the slice of bread.  “That is not help!  I meant…” Her words dissolved into lighthearted giggles, an utterly delightful sound.  “A…cloth!” 

With a great laugh, he kissed her again more zealously, feeling the stickiness of her mouth, tasting the honey that lay on her tongue; she tasted like he imagined a flower would to a bee and he tried to kiss deeper, fascinated by her sweetness.  She laughed at once and pushed his chest to leave a tacky smear, her smile becoming brighter than it had been since the cave’s fairy kingdom.  Éowyn gulped wine and laughed again.  “Now a cloth?”

        Smiling, he handed her one.  “My apologies.” 

        After a few swallows, dabbing at her sticky cheeks and fingers with a napkin he provided, she smiled faintly and cleared her throat.  “Here…” Her gaze became very shy.  “I think…” Setting her cup aside, she simply looked at him, waiting. 

        This was a good idea…leaning on his able hand, he met her to share a few brief kisses.        

        It was not long before they’d finished the meal and Éowyn groaned as she stood.  “So much…” She hugged her slim waist and moaned, “You are trying to fatten me!”

        It would take more than that meal…  He laughed and scolded, “Come, quickly, it is already past midday.”  The guards had noted their rising and now rode down to them, untying their mounts and retrieving the cloaks, the basket without prompting.  Faramir nodded to his Captain in silent recognition of his service and observed Beregond’s quiet pleasure.  Elessar was a wise Lord, indeed.

        His love swung into her saddle and sighed, leaning low over the chestnut’s withers and hugging his neck.  “Where now in this lovely land, Faramir?”

        “There is another place near, then back to the City, I suppose…” He mounted with care, his hand just beginning to pain him again.  “Will you eat with me again, Éowyn, please?”  Faramir could not help adding the supplication.  He’d missed her the night before, feeling the empty place at his side like he’d never earlier. 

        She pressed her face into the horse’s mane.  “If you wish me to.”

        The guards mounted again and they began at a walk to crest the hills about the dale, Faramir looking about himself to find the way.  Purposely, for he could not read her thoughts and would never learn them if he did not question her, he asked, “Do you not enjoy it?”

        “I don’t know…it is…your folk, Aragorn, you’re all very kind…” She frowned anxiously.  “It is…so different.”  Éowyn finished lamely, looking down and away.  “I miss Meduseld.”

        Faramir took a deep, tense breath.  “I want you to come.”  He waited.

        She smiled a little, the grief resurfacing in her pale eyes, her features and her mind, puzzling him.  “I will come.”

        “And…” He hesitated, then plunged, “If I beg, will you wear something…that you would not, in your lands?  Something richer,” He smiled ingratiatingly, “A gown, jewels more deserving of a Lady such as yourself?” 

        “Why?”  Her gaze was guarded, watchful for insult. 

        Faramir tried to explain in as light-hearted a fashion as he could, smiling, “You deserve them, my Lady brave and beautiful.  I would see you in them on this night at least.”  At her frown, he hastily added, “It is only to please me, to humor my fancy, I would not command you or be disappointed.”

        “You would be.”  Her jaw had tightened, her body tensing as he asked these things of her.

So difficult, my love…  Unable to lie, he exhaled.  “Yes.”

“I do not wish to disappoint as I did before.”  Her voice and bearing were stiff, cutting him, but she nodded and agreed again, smoothly, coolly saying, “I will do as you wish.”

Faramir winced; his gratitude sounded terribly hollow and trite in the face of her restrained displeasure.  “Thank you.”

***

        What do you want from me?  Éowyn snuck looks at him as they rode, increasing to a lope over the green hills.  The land was just as beautiful as it had been earlier with grass thick and high, the sky above a deep shade of blue mottled only with white clouds.  As they went, the horses raced through patches of flowers, passing thickets of lithe trees and pale stone outcroppings that rose and fell on the sides of hills and steeper inclines; tiny rills were bubbling and chuckling here and there, running down hills and around banks, waiting to be splashed through.  Ithilien seemed full of little streams and rivers; its many foothills sloped down and hid open dingles and leafy copses.  Climbing high, she could spot gorges in the distance, multihued with pale rock and dark hollows, the prelude to caverns or shallow grottos.  Éowyn wondered if they cut rock from those places to use in the City…if they would cut rock from them to build Faramir’s house.  What would be my house, if I let it…she bowed her head, uncertain.  I like him very much, he is all and more any could ask…oh, would it be enough or would I lament forever my ending in this South country…?

        My brother, my folk…tears rose and she suppressed them as Faramir led her, following a muddy little brook, its pure waters rushing and leaping eagerly, the pale outlines of fish visible even from the saddle; soon, the brook turned and vanished, but she could still hear it.  His country was rich, fertile and likely full of game with all the shelter of trees and water shielded by glens, its long hills perfect for the growth of crops or the grazing of stock.  It held rock quarries for the settling of men in rich houses, sod could be cut to house farmers, herders, wood to warm and aid them; there was plenty here for his reign to flourish in the command and tax of those men.  She sighed.  He is a good man, gentle, rich and soon to be richer, noble of blood with fair lands and a fair manner…what does he want in me?  Éowyn could not fathom his desire.  Were there no other women of high blood in his City that he had to deign to wed her, a Shieldmaiden of another land, a bride of no practical use save that of producing heirs and assuring alliance?  She stared at his broad back, the dark wing of his hair swinging with the strides of his horse.  What do you want…dear Faramir?  I cannot give much and you ask too much, too much, too swiftly.  Dropping her eyes, she wished to scream or weep, anything to break the tension in her bones.  I would have you, but not your City, your country, but not your folk…

        “Careful…there is a fissure here.”  He slowed their pace to a walk and after a moment she could see the deep, dark crack in the earth, partially covered with tall grass, craggy moss hanging from the raw stone.  Éowyn peered down it, but could see no end to its depths and she shivered.  Ithilien was clearly just as full of caves and chasms as it was running water and trees.  Faramir looked with her and remarked, “I do not know where that one goes.”  He twisted in the saddle and she followed his gaze as it moved from hill to hill as though his grey eyes could see through the grass and earth to the bones of the world and follow the thin cleft to its end.

        “What do you mean?”

        He answered absently, like reciting some long learned lesson.  “The caves and crevasses were searched and mapped under command of Túrin the II, a Steward many years ago.” 

“All of them?”

“The largest recesses were marked and made known, the lesser were forgotten for the most part, too small to hide a man or company of Rangers.”  Faramir glanced at her, eyes bright, his voice airy now with enthusiasm.  Éowyn smiled bittersweetly; of course her Prince was thrilled that she took an interest.  “He wished to hold the land, but knew that it was vulnerable being so close to the Dark Lord’s domain.  Folk used to live here then, long ago and it was a fair country with a great City even more grand than Minas Tirith.  That City, Minas Ithil, I would fear to tread its road and streets even now with the death of all foul things…” He fell silent and she became aware that the guards were listening and had become grave and pale.  Faramir continued, “The Steward was wise and came to the idea of fighting the coming darkness with small forces and cunning rather than bold assaults.  It is how I fought, how I was taught: to lie low and strike with care and suffer the least amount of risk to my company.”

She nodded and he added, “I spoke of Henneth Annûn, the greatest of our hidden sanctuaries; there are many others in the North where it is hilly and the land is riddled with caverns, very few in the South where it is bare and runs to marsh and naked rock.” 

Though she had limited knowledge of the South’s geography, this foul, barren land was burned into her and Éowyn spoke the name that, till the Pelennor, had been the sole bane of her house.  “Emyn Muil.”

        “Yes.”  He must have heard the tone of mixed resentment and grief in her voice, but did not question.  Instead, after a few moments, Faramir smiled.  “I would show you Henneth Annûn if I had the time…” He chuckled softly, “It is secret, known to our Rangers alone and kept so under pain of death, but I doubt that would matter any longer.  There is nothing to secret it from and the waterfall is magnificent at sunset and in the moonlight.”  He sighed as though it were very beautiful indeed.

        Éowyn just nodded again and they rode in silence for a while, only broken by the breathing of their mounts, the creak of leather and thudding of hooves.  As they left the ridge of hills and jogged down into another short gully, she sat up, curious.  The sides of this dale were steeper, cut by pale rock and dirt; it ended rather abruptly, curving into a small basin.  Éowyn gasped, enchanted by the view before her.  At the end of the small ravine was a high, rocky ledge and under that, a pool that shimmered under the sun.  It was fed by a waterfall that, while no higher or much wider than a man, still managed to splash and mist prettily.  About the narrow cascade were carpets of rich green moss that clung to black, wet rocks; farther out were multitudes of flowers in many hues that stuck up above thickly interlaced patches of soft grass.  “Oh…” 

        Faramir was beaming at her.  “I like this place as well.  Good for fishing,” He winked, “And to bathe under the fall.”

        Éowyn laughed as they drew to a halt by the pool and looked about herself in pleasure.  It was so green, so lush!  She inhaled deeply, savoring the green smell of growth and spring after so long in the City.  Laughing, spirits buoyed, she cried, “Are there many little places like this all over your land, wonders hidden to reward a bold traveler?”

        “Aye.”  He glowed, “I would show you them if I had but time,” Faramir’s smile turned more wry, “And permission.”

        Not even the reminder of her brother’s foolishness could stop her from smiling.  Éowyn dismounted and walked closer to the pool, then, feeling the thick carpet of moss and grasses under her boots, could not resist unlacing and stepping out of them.  When she glanced to Faramir, he only laughed and waved her on, so clumsily standing in a one-handed attempt to unlace his own that she felt pity and went back to him.  “Here, or I’ll have to do more than give you a draught!”

        He grinned close to her face, lifting one foot to her thigh so that she could swiftly free him, arms out and keeping his balance.  “That is no incentive.”

        Éowyn laughed loudly in merriment and surprised herself.  Faramir smiled in silent welcome, such warmth that she glanced away, unable to meet his deep devotion.

        “Lady, allow me to attend to my Lord.”  Beregond had come, leaving the last guard to hold their mounts.  He took her task, swiftly finishing it.  Faramir looked mildly embarrassed, thanking his man with a glance to her that spoke that he would have rather her finish, as he could not tease his guard.  Éowyn laughed and walked ahead, soon giving in again to her impulses and dashing barefoot through the moss and grasses, relishing the sensation.  How long had she walked on stone or dry, rustling straw, whether in the City or in Meduseld?  How long since she’d gone barefoot, not worrying about having to run or battle, to relish the childlike defenselessness of bare feet?

        “Wait!” 

        “What?”  She spun, turning her face up to the sky.  She’d not been so blissful in so long, returned to childlike delight with the feel of cool grass under her feet, warm earth, the sun on her shoulders.  Despite her uncertainty about this man and this joining, her guilt in what she felt she must do, her heart lifted and soared.  Éowyn laughed and jested, “I thought you would be swifter with those long legs, my Lord!”

        “They are already weary.”  He moved to her side, keeping pace with her as she neared the water.  “I have not ridden so much in a long while.”

        Strange folk!  Éowyn shook her head.  The waterfall had a fuzzy rainbow above it, shining and flickering as the water danced.  She smiled happily, “This…your country…”

        “Our country.”  His eyes begged her.

        She only continued, more subdued, guilt in her words, “Is lovely.”

        Faramir seemed to accept her refusal, gesturing, “Walk with me, we can pass under the falls, there is a path.”

        “Can we?”  She followed him over the slick pebbles and small boulders, sliding as her toes squelched in mud and ached to grip the rocks.  More than once she had to grab his arm, laughing as he listed with her new weight before bearing her up easily.  Her Prince was stronger than his lank frame would suggest, unexpected as she’d not thought he would be so puissant; he looked to bear no more muscle or girth than a lad of her folk did.  Éowyn reached down to roll up her trousers to her knees and frowned.  Would he think her immodest?  Her eyes fell upon her muddy feet and she laughed.  It is too late, I fear. 

        “Coming?”

        “Aye!”  They were close and she had to talk louder over the rush and tumble of water.  The spray chilled her skin and made her clothes cling damply.  It felt good in the warmth of the day.  Droplets clung to Faramir’s cheeks and dark eyelashes as he grinned at her, long legs slipping and jerking as he made his way off the slick, mossy rocks and to a sandy path, drawing nearer and nearer to the fall.  Éowyn gazed at him, awed; the delicate vapors that arose from the splashing water glossed his hair, making it shine like a raven’s wing, and gleamed off his skin, his surcoat, running in tiny drops off of the sable leather.  As he approached the cascade, a fine mist rose about him so that he seemed an apparition and not truly real, her good Prince.  She smiled and followed with care, eyes widened in wonderment; nothing like this was in her lands.  Beautiful…she did not mean the fall.  He waited at the edge, wet hand extended, grinning as she took it.  Faramir was very, very handsome.  Éowyn found she could not turn away. 

        “Look!”  They’d come behind the waterfall, ducking into a small craggy grotto filled with moss and ferns, just large enough for both, their bodies pressed close in a cool, dim space made riotous with foliage.  Before her, Éowyn could not even extend her arm without it being engulfed in falling water, so close was the fall.  Faramir had to bend a little, hunching his shoulders; he was really too tall to fit comfortably under the little rushing cascade.  She could see through the water, but barely, a view that twisted and wavered, green and blue and white, shimmering, brilliant.  Wherever it was still there was a thin, shadowy reflection of herself and Faramir. 

        “It’s so…” Dazzled, she turned to smile at him and, already bent, he kissed her, lips wet and cool at first, the fine spray lying upon them still more thickly as they stood, dampening their hair, their clothing, their skin.  His eyes were full of love in that moment, love undeniable and she swallowed hard, a hot lump growing in her throat, a tightness in her chest.  He loves me…it was not mere fancy, nor passing infatuation, but deep attachment; his heart would break if she tried to leave him.  Oh, but I must ask…must beg him reconsider…

        His wet hand touched her cheek and she lifted for his next kiss, enjoying its light press, the way his lips were cool, then warming with the heat of his flesh and blood.  I must, because he is too kind.  Éowyn smiled weakly and let him think the wetness on her face was mere drizzle from the fall.  “I like…” Éowyn laughed and surrendered, “I love this…it is beautiful, wonderful.”  She peered through the mirror-like fall again, seeing darker streaks of their guards, horses, then a pale, shimmering reflection of herself.  “There is nothing like this in the Mark…we have less water, I think.”  Éowyn reached out and felt the spray enfold her fingertips, her palm, then with a shock, she took the incredible force of the falling water; the cascade appeared weak, but it bowed her arms downwards without effort.  Tasting the water that lay in the cup of her palm and finding it deliciously cool and pure, she laughed and flapped her dripping hand to shake some of the moisture free.

        “Is that so?”  Faramir looked pleased, smiling contentedly as he watched her. 

Nodding, “Yes!”, she stuck out her hand again, then both, laughing and feeling a delightful thrill of joy in the foreign sensation of water bowing her down, her arms aching as she withdrew them.  Éowyn stared at the fall, experiencing an intense desire to throw herself under it, to feel it beating down and then leap into the pool that gleamed and roiled before her. 

He smiled, “I found this long ago when I was expected to roam and learn the lands in ways no map could teach.  The path was already here, whether for shelter from passing foes or lovers, I do not know.”

Éowyn turned, feeling his arm pressed to her side, his long legs brushing hers.  Faramir chuckled and clasped her waist, pulling them even closer.  His bent head nearly touched hers, looking out through the water, then back to smile softly, intimately as he murmured.  “I’d none to share it with save you…”

        His body pressed hers, their faces close in the little grotto.  Éowyn swallowed, torn between enjoyment and new nervousness, both emotions rising equally within.  “No Ladies?”

        His teasing eyes lowered to her rolled up trousers, her muddied and bared feet.  Éowyn flushed, relaxing as he laughed and shook his head.  “No, no Ladies.”  Faramir teased, whispering into her ear, “Still none, I suspect…and I am quite glad.”

        Her heart skipped, wary of insult, full of hope.  “Is that so?”

        “Aye, it is.”  He squeezed her waist.  As she smiled, his eyes softened and he took another kiss.  Faramir’s expression was tender enough to make her glance away, too guilty and unsure to meet his warmth and clear love.  “Come, before we are sodden and catch chill, I’ll not have the Master of the Houses angered at me.”  Her Prince held her hand as he led her out the other side of the fall and back under the sun.  There Éowyn stopped, moving away to stand with her feet in the cool, whirling water and wish that she could strip and swim in the pool, to wash away her fears and anxieties in the pure waters of this foreign land.  Her desire must have shown, for he smiled and gestured.  “I promise I would not look upon you…” Faramir laughed boyishly, just as lighthearted as she in this place, and ended in a playfully fiendish growl, “Much.” 

        Éowyn felt her face heat as his gaze rested upon her, all the while smiling gaily in his jest.  Harmless, my Prince.  Licking her lips, she pursed them and answered primly.  “No thank you.” 

“You do not trust my honor?”

“No.”

Faramir burst into laughter and she turned away, admiring the little canyon to hide the fact that she was embarrassed by his cheeky ease.  “If that is what you wish.”  His grey eyes were on her again, appreciating, warmly pleased by what he saw in her form, her face.  Éowyn tried to use the moment to become used to the knowledge that she enjoyed his look and the admiration within it, so welcome.  Ithilien was too bright and beautiful.  This good man belongs here…she beamed up at him, affection growing. 

        “Sit with me?”  He gestured to a large pad of moss that grew on a rock near enough to the water’s edge that she could dip her feet or fingers into the pool.  She did and with pleasure, slipping her toes into the water and splashing lazily, the moss softer than cushions beneath her.  Faramir dropped carefully, sitting an arm’s length away; Éowyn watched him decide how far, glancing at her and measuring the distance of her possible fright, of his own sense of decency. 

They were alone; their guards had tied the horses and were once more on their self-appointed courses, leaving them be.  Éowyn left her feet in the water and lay back, looking at him from her inverted perspective: Faramir was upside down.  He smiled bashfully, “Do you…truly like it here in Ithilien?”

        “Yes.”  She moved her feet, feeling water droplets slide along her skin, splash up her shins.  It was so nice, cold like the Snowbourn and with no current.  Éowyn closed her eyes and felt her heart ache. 

        “Good, I’m glad.”  He did not speak for a few minutes, their silence filled with the sound of falling water, of birdsong that she just now noticed, the thudding hooves of their guards’ horses as the men moved. 

        “It is…” Éowyn sighed from the very depths of her being, her detachment breaking as she moaned, “Oh, I love this land.”  Behind her, upside down, he was smiling broadly now.  “It is so peaceful, so beautiful, so beautiful…” Running her fingers over the soft, springy moss, she laughed. 

        “It does seem more beautiful this year…” Faramir teased her with a fond smile, “Perhaps my land knows it finally has a Lady that matches its fairness.”

        “No…”

        “Yes.”  He was firm enough to silence her.  She sighed and said no more, closing her eyes.  Faramir began to speak, his voice low and deep, telling her about his land and the history of it, about Minas Ithil and men who had been as Kings and Lords and fought and died in honor.  His words moved over Ages, rolling and gentle as the waters that lapped her ankles and she stretched out her hands, reaching, fingertips accidentally touching his leg, his knee.  He stopped as she curled her hands, withdrawing them a fraction.

        Éowyn felt a small thud and peered through her lashes—he’d laid beside her, not quite an arm’s length away now, propped upon his elbow.  Faramir smiled and, drowsy with the warm sun, she returned it, whispering, “Go on…I want to hear…”

        He did, speaking with obvious pleasure, and her mind filled with the shine of silver and sable, of banners and horses and men, of the laying of stone to stone, the singing of bows and clash of swords.  He talked of the City she knew and the other she didn’t, the White Tree, the lands about Minas Tirith that had been mostly abandoned for generations of men and how they would grow to look under the reign of Elessar.  It seemed he knew much, and when she said so, he told of reading countless tomes, of seeing pictures drawn with scribes’ hands in the margins, colored in rich greens of growing crops, browns of fertile soils, golds of full harvests.  Those pictures had shown great, courtly kingdoms kept so by happy, healthy common folk and ruled over by magnificent and charitable Lords; he sighed and murmured softly that he would have it again, making her throat ache with his merit, his goodness. 

        “The book in your room, the great big one, in the elven tongue…” She smiled, “I opened it but I could not read it.”

        “I will read it to you, if you wish.”

        Éowyn remembered the pictures within it so exquisitely rendered, so mysterious.  Nodding, she replied.  “I wish that very much.”

        He took a breath, “If it pleases you, I could teach you some of the elven language…my folk use it often in the Houses or in the Tower.”  She could hear his slight nervousness, “In weddings.”  Faramir paused, “You might understand our ways better if you could understand the words…”

        She compressed her lips and nodded tinily, thinking of the many, many drawers and containers in the Houses labeled with the incomprehensible elven scritches and scratches.  “Yes.”

          Faramir wavered, drawing in a breath; he asked in a very soft, very earnest tone, “Will you help me, my Lady, to make my country as great as it once was?  You know of things I do not…you showed me the day before and I would love your aid.”  He exhaled and vowed, smiling fervently, “It is your land, too, my love, your will shall be followed as mine.”

        Her throat constricted, eyes squeezing shut; Éowyn could not say yes and then beg freedom, could not say no and see or hear the hurt in his face, his voice, his heart.  I do not want to…I must…she had the horrible feeling that she’d gone too far already.   When she opened her eyes again and met his, the warmth in them confirmed it: she had gone too far, traipsed into his country, his heart.  I cannot…she might be cold, but she was not cruel.  I have pledged, I shall hold.  Éowyn nodded and smiled faintly, feeling her chest compressing with icy, queasy nerves…what path am I treading?

But in response to her subtle affirmation his face lit up, handsome features repelling their lightened mask of bruises, ablaze now with joy, his grin confirming her thoughts.  Faramir or naught…I have pledged the man, the title of Lady…    She smiled weakly, trying to concentrate on the pleasure he gave, to breathe past her shriveled lungs, “Yes, I shall.”  My brother, my brother, my brother…my land!

“Thank you…I thank you, my Lady…” He laughed softly, happy creases coming to his mouth, “My folk shall know your deeds and thank you as well.” 

Her hands tightened, nails digging into the warm soil.  Éowyn tried not to sound as faint as she felt.  “You are too good…”  She just barely curtailed the formality, instinctively feeling the need for distance.

Faramir smiled brilliantly, nearly radiating his happiness.  He scooted nearer to her, grass flattening, fragrant and bruised under his weight, leaning on his good arm still.  His broken hand carefully lay on the earth between them.  Éowyn took her feet from the water, letting them lie chill on the ground and watched him.  Under her skin, her muscles twitched and fidgeted.  His gaze lowered to her hair that lay spread in a wide, flaxen swath under and around her head, murmuring, “I would put flowers in your hair…gold on your hands, your throat, wrap you in silks…” She felt herself tense and glanced away.  He must have noticed.  “Why would you not want them?”

“I am not accustomed to wearing them.”

He sounded genuinely puzzled.  “Would you not like to be, Éowyn?”

“I don’t know.”

Faramir was silent for a long while, and then began speaking again of his country.  Éowyn closed her eyes, feeling like she’d disappointed.  If it contents him…she sighed and listened, letting herself float on his gentle voice.

***

She’d gone to sleep again, looking much like Lúthien to his admittedly besotted eye.  Faramir sat up carefully, freeing his able hand to touch the strands of hair that lay loose upon the grass.  He looked at her for a long time, studying her features, noting the slight difference of theirs to most women in the City.  He marveled at her pale eyelashes and brows, raising his hand to stroke her hair with feather light touches.  My love…he felt protective warmth rise.  Faramir carefully slipped some of her flaxen mane aside to expose her neck, marked in places from his mouth, her delicate ears, the soft hollows and lines of her collarbone and the tender flesh of her throat.  Beautiful…he’d never had the privilege of gazing at her for so long without interruption and his eyes wandered greedily.    

As he sighed, Éowyn’s eyes opened and she inhaled sharply, half-rising.  She blinked a few times before he sensed her relaxation and subsequent embarrassment.  Her cheeks darkened and her hand fell to playing with the grass.  Heart aching, for she jumped at his nearness still, he pretended ease, “Shall we return?”

Her reply was near inaudible.  “Aye.”

The return was swift, Beregond galloping ahead to summon the ship.  Faramir was captivated once more by their brief stay aboard its decks; the horses and his love both withstood the ordeal far better, Éowyn even coming with him to gaze over the side to the River far below.  But despite this, he felt…downcast, his heart low with rejection. 

She does not feel safe with me…he snuck glances at her as they jogged their horses through the Walls again.   “You will wish to refresh yourself…”  It was not yet sunset, merely afternoon.

“Aye.”  Her light eyes were quick to turn from his gaze.

Faramir found he had no desire yet to return to his quarters, to bathe and ready himself for a meal before Court.  He made a swift decision.  “Beregond will go with you…”  She had no maidens, he realized suddenly.  Would she accept some?  Where would he find suitable women for her?  The younger women he’d found and corralled had seemed eager to serve… He looked at her, but had no energy to begin to put forth the idea. 

Éowyn’s brow had creased, as did that of his Captain, though his Captain’s smoothed at once.  Faramir managed a smile, a light tone to encourage them both.  “He is my best servant.  And what is mine is yours my Lady, though we are but trothed.  Call upon him for your needs.”

“If you wish.”  Clearly ill at ease, Éowyn glanced to Beregond, who bowed to her. 

Faramir took a breath, feeling weary.  “All that she asks…” 

The man nodded briskly.  “Aye, my Lord.”

His voice was curt with his weariness, his utter disappointment.  “Till the meal, Éowyn.”  He turned from them as they dismounted, nudging his mount into a quick walk, as though he were a man who had many tasks in mind.  But he had none and so Faramir trotted his horse between the Walls again and then halted there, simply looking over the Pelennor, Ithilien, letting his gaze fall upon all that could be seen.

Translations:

Vanimelda (Q)—my beloved lady

Umin hanya, vanimelda.  Umin hanya… (Q)— I don’t understand, my beloved.  I don’t understand…

My apologies for not updating Chapter 75, as I know it is the one all would rather have.  This was closer to finished and I have had less time to work on both.  Also, I wanted to assure you that I was still alive.  :)