The victory was accompanied with many vain cries and laughter.  Éomer slumped back in his chair, watching his sister down her wine in a single gulp and whoop in an entirely unmaiden-like fashion, slapping the table in glee.  She sounded a bit slurred, laughing, “We eart sighbeorht!”  The Queen, who’d drunk likewise, laughed as well but had more grace and did not point out their victory.  Arwen simply plucked up his King and smiled with gratification as she added it to the pile of his warriors, all captured in nets of fine strategy.

        He withheld his grin, instead mumbling sullenly.  “Yes.”  The farce only made Éowyn laugh more, the sound delighting him as it had all their childhood.  She laughed more often with her Prince and he could see that her face was aglow.  He felt a surge of contentment and kept his brow knitted as though in displeasure.  It is good… 

Éowyn’s eyes raked him at once with a haughty pride that, he was sure, did not come as much from pretense as she thought.  He smiled inwardly.

Sighing, Faramir leaned back in his own chair and glanced at him, a smile curling his mouth irresistibly upwards as he tried to appear contrite and shamed rather than giving in to his own laughter at the women’s jubilation.  “I am sorry I failed you,” The faintest of hesitations came, “My friend.”

        “Do not trouble yourself.”  Careful to reply with warm geniality, a thing that took less effort every day, he paused.  “Men have lost to worse women than these crowing Ladies…though I cannot imagine a woman more vain than my sister.”  The Steward laughed and his sister scoffed in the midst of her gloating, but Éowyn’s joy in victory paled to the smile that crossed her face now.   Aye, it is better…  Warming and well aware that he pleased her with every gentle statement directed to her Prince, Éomer added, “It is better to share my defeat with you…” He felt a grin touch his mouth, “As I doubt you will sulk the night long…” Éomer paused, delicately refraining from glancing to his sister.  “Like some I know well would have.”  Faramir laughed again, looking across the table to his love in badly hidden merriment. 

She stared at them with narrowed eyes that nevertheless shone star-like and her voice rang with a joy barely disguised.  “I never did that!”

        Solemn, he feigned innocence.  “I did not accuse you, sister.”

        “Aye.”  Her glare darkened but he could see her delight and Éomer smiled to himself, satisfied.  

        The Steward took a swallow of wine, asking quietly, amiably, “When will you call for your champion?  I’m sure he awaits your word.”

        “Now, I think.”  She rose and walked to lean against the arm of Faramir’s chair, her hand on his shoulder. “I will wear one of my gowns…” Éomer looked over, curiously wondering if the man would show jealousy.  Her eyes sparkled with good humor as she finished, “To honor his efforts in achieving his prize.”  Éowyn smoothed her rough men’s shirt and teased, “I’d hate for him to be dissatisfied and claim I’d not given full and generous reparations.”

        “I don’t think Gaer would be dissatisfied.”  Faramir showed naught but amusement, simply laughing softly and gazing upwards with affection.  Éowyn leaned closer and he reached to pluck bits of grass seed from the legs of her trousers with light hands, asking, “And what shall I do?”

        “Go on, you’ll have company in my fool brother there.”  She gestured to him and Éomer asked, pretending amazement,

        “You’d bar me from my table?”

        His sister smiled.  “Aye.”

        “Shameless, is she not?”  He shook his head, “Disgraceful.  Mother would have not stood for this, Éowyn.”

        She answered with a light tug of her coarse garment and a impertinent laugh, “She wouldn’t have stood for this, either.” 

        “Yes, terribly shameless.”  Faramir’s voice was full of adoration alone and Éomer almost laughed at him.

        Fool.  He felt a rush of fondness.  I will come and see what all manner of things my sister gets away with in your lands…

        “And what of me?”  The Queen inquired archly, “Am I to be barred as well?”  Her clever elven hands had ordered the game and a watchful servant had taken it away, other servants hovering, waiting to sweep any crumbs or mess from the tabletop, then lay the table with food and drink.

        Éowyn was less emboldened, frowning.  “I doubt you would find us good company.”

        “I do not doubt as you, but I shall not stand in the way.”  Her bright eyes were brighter, “He fought well, I enjoyed the spectacle.”  Arwen glanced to Faramir and smiled at him, “Though I did take fright, dear Steward, to see you fall…mortals are so delicate, even those of the lines of Númenor.”  She shuddered and he could see his sister’s features stilling before she chewed her lip in anxiety. 

        “I think I took the most fright, my Queen.”  Faramir clasped Éowyn’s hand as he laughed and winced, “As well as the brunt of the fall.”

        Éomer studied the man’s expression.  It had been a hard fall, one he would have not liked to experience.  “You are well, though?”

        “Yes, yes.”  The Queen moved away with her dog as Faramir smiled, rising from his chair and grimacing while he did.  His first strides were stiff and hobbling, his mouth twisting with some pain as he straightened his back. 

        Éowyn watched, her brow lowering in concern, and asked, smiling gently, anxiously, “Would you like a draught, Faramir?” 

His spirits still high, Éomer shook his head at once and declared loudly, “I would take the pain, kinsman.”  Faramir glanced to him and he added vigorously, “Eorl himself would not have the courage to drink what she would give you!” 

The Steward laughed in a great burst.

His sister’s smile widened; glancing to him in equal parts praise and annoyance, she scolded, “Eorl would be glad to drink my fine draught,” then Éowyn turned back to her lover, her words clearly holding some meaning beyond his grasp, “I promise it shall hold no pain.”

        Their gazes locked and Éomer marveled at the tender emotion within Faramir’s response.  “Aye, I would like it.” 

        As his sister moved away, calling for servants to attend her, he watched Faramir lean his arm against the table, using it as a prop, clearly in more discomfort than he would show to his love.  But the Steward did not complain, simply hissing through his teeth while slowly stretching his sore muscles.  Faramir smiled at him and Éomer returned it with no effort. 

This man takes much for my fancy…he turned away, pretending to watch the White Horse run in the wind. 

***

“Another man I might suspect of attempting to steal her away.”  Faramir kept his arms crossed and his brow furrowed, struggling not to smile at Gaer.  Weariness rose in a grey curtain that enfolded his bones, dragging at his limbs; momentarily giving in, he leaned his hip against the table, glancing occasionally at the dishes laid there.  

        The Rohir gazed at him with equal speculation between brushing off his shirt and carefully making sure his boots were not dusty—both movements spoke of the anxiousness of a suitor come to call and made Faramir’s struggle all the more impassioned and all the more hopeless.  “Aye, another man.”

        “The dancing…asking to be named her champion…” To keep his body from stiffening entirely, Faramir strode in a small circle around his friend, fighting with all his will to keep his cool tone.  It was difficult, the muscles of his mouth pulling and striving to widen into a great smile or give voice to unruly laughter; Gaer’s mind was very eager.  He glanced over at Éowyn’s tent, but the flaps were down and he could see nothing of her.  “You’ve even managed to accompany us to my City.”

        Gaer broke into a cocky grin, rocking on his heels, not intimidated in the least.  “Aye, I’d watch me, too.”  He rubbed the rust-colored stubble on his chin, then peered at his hands as though inspecting his fingernails.  “She likes me, probably because I’m very handsome, clever, better on horse than you…”

        “Yes.”  Trying his best to remain forbidding, Faramir made his brows go up and down and then his face scrunch into a scowl as he clarified.  “Last night?  The unnamed reward?”

        “Ah.”  The Rider glowed.  “Most generous is our Lady.”

        He clasped his scratched, raw hands, saying simply and frostily.  “Our.”

        Gaer smiled.  “Aye.”

        He began his circle again, each stride carefully measured and slow, stiff with formality and aching discomfort, his arms crossed, his stance as forbidding as his creased brow.  Father, you would be proud…  His inner smile faltered, outwardly he kept his coldness.  “You will act with the purest of intent…”

The Rider turned to him and met his eyes for a beat, a beat in which Faramir, to his relief, nearly broke into laughter from seeing his own mirth reflected in Gaer’s pale irises—there was no fooling his friend—then nodded briskly, almost soldierly.  He straightened.  “Yes.”  Faramir did not speak again, just stared levelly, focusing upon him to see if he could inspire even the slightest of alarm within Gaer. 

There was no effect and after a minute or so, the Rohir smiled broadly, nearly boasting as he said softly, an increasingly self-satisfied grin rising to the surface.  “Aren’t you angered.  Did I not say so?” 

His chest ached with his great explosion of laughter, surprising even himself.   

As Gaer grinned, the cream-colored flap of Éowyn’s tent flew out and she slipped under it, ending their conversation.  Faramir admired her, noting that the Rohir next to him did as well.  A servant met her with a cup, which Éowyn tasted carefully and gestured for something else to be added.  Faramir watched and his heart warmed as she fussed over the drink for a moment more, stirring it and sipping the liquid before nodding to the serving woman in a quiet declaration of satisfaction.

Éowyn began walking to meet them, smiling prettily; he felt Gaer’s silent devotion and growled, “Purest…”

The redheaded Rider snorted in laughter, then bowed as she’d come near to them, almost floating in the golden afternoon light.  “Min Ides.”

Faramir watched his love approach, taking pleasure in it.  While her hair had yet to lighten to its natural, glossy flaxen, she was beautiful to him in the gown, its folds molded to her body, the cloth pale as the moon, emphasizing her blooming, healthy color.  He beamed, silently thinking she looked better each day.  Ah…he noted with even more pleasure that she wore his ring, the three blue stones surrounded by tiny diamonds standing out against the snowy gown and bringing out her pale eyes.  A wide blue ribbon was wound about her waist, further emphasizing the ring. 

“Min cempa.”  She smiled and shared a laughing glance with Faramir as Gaer bent his head.  A sigh arose, she seemed very gladdened.  Her cheeks were pinked, her eyes bright and liquid, her every movement swift and light with gladness…all as she’d never been in his City...

Oh, would that we could stay and never leave…  He banished the dark thought quickly.  He was not master here.

“Here, your draught.”  He heard her inner voice…I adore him…and smiled. 

Taking the cup, Faramir made a show of looking stern, which he could tell amused them both.   If only his heart could be so easily buoyed…  “I will take my leave.”

Gaer baited, “Aye, only victors may stay.”

He responded instantly, every aching muscle within him endeavoring to keep his sternness and not to slump into delighted laughter.  Where is this happy place?  Am I in the Mark, still, truly?   “And only the plighted may touch…keep that in thought, my friend.”

Éowyn glanced down with a laugh of derision at their fool behavior and shook her head.  She gave a small, impatient gesture, the stones on her ring sparking into his eye.  “Go on, go on!”  Yet as he turned, she snagged his arm and leaned up to give him a kiss.  Éowyn kept her hand on his forearm, pulling him so that she could stand upon tiptoe and murmur into his bent ear, “But don’t go far…”

Faramir did not try to conceal this smile; he wouldn’t have been able to.  With a shallow and courtly bow, careful of his full cup, he replied, “As you will it, my Lady.”  My dearest…

Her eyes shone; she liked that.  Éowyn stepped back, taking the Rider’s arm to lead him to the laden table.  “Come Gaer, I trust you have some witty conversation to keep me entertained…”

“You put your trust in a witless man…”

“No!”  She laughed.

The Rider’s answer, voice just fading now by distance, was so maudlin that Faramir’s self-possession could not compete and he burst into a great round of laughter, bent over and gasping with it.  “Ah, witless as long as I look upon you, my Lady.”  He saw Éowyn turn slightly, her face crumpling in her own merriment, head shaking in near exasperation.

“Do not be foolish!”  Faramir grinned at her and she waved at him fiercely.  Go!  Chuckling under his breath, he finally obeyed.

I could not leave her in better hands…he smiled as he drank from the cup, draining its flavorful contents before striding to rejoin Éomer and the Queen…save my own. 

And yet he paused for a moment, feeling a twinge run through his heart.  Head down, Faramir moved more quickly through the crowd that parted easily, some men calling to him with cheers.  Deeply ingrained manners made him look up, smile and call back, but the words that fell from his lips had no place alongside those manners or the tutors who’d taught them to him. 

“Ic þancie þe…”  “Ic þancie þe…” 

A trio of lasses smiled, one laughing in a squeaky voice before pushing the other aside and out of his path. 

He smiled faintly, but did not feel it.  Faramir took a deep breath of the dry air of the Mark, tasting dust, smelling horse strongly and the harsh smoke of fire.  His chest drew suddenly tight for reasons he could not fathom and a chill ran down his spine.  I have had no visions of myself in the Steward’s chair…

“Faramir!”  Mindset not quite as confident as his call, Éomer’s voice rose above the crowd’s soft roar.  He turned, now light-headed, and nodded to show that he was coming.         

***

        Éomer wondered what they were to do as he strolled with Arwen at his side, her puppy trotting on his leash as always.  Rusco’s tail wagged back and forth, his little black nose constantly on the ground, straining this way and that to follow some delicious smell. 

He began slowly, “Well…”

        The Queen looked from him to the Steward and smiled in a strangely enigmatic fashion.  “I plead weariness, my Lords, it has been a long day even for my kind, and far hotter than fair Lórien or Imladris.”  Her smile widened when she gazed at him and he understood—she was leaving them alone.  Her bright elven eyes were steady, encouraging; he basked in them for the moment it took to gather himself.

        Éomer nodded and bowed slightly, feeling his heart both warmed and saddened, “Good night, my Queen.”

        Her voice was soft, bracing, “And to you, Éomer.”   

Wishing her the same and looking much wearier, Faramir was soon walking at his side, gazing with curiosity at the vendors and their wares.  Many called to him, hoping he would spend his money, but he shook his head, smiling in polite refusal that soon turned to embarrassment as the calls became more proud, citing his bravery and near victory as incentive to buy this weapon or that, or a present for the White Lady.  They held up swords that glowed white as silver in the sun, shields of copper and wood, jingling mail and long spears along with brightly jeweled necklaces, peeled sticks that held golden rings and clothing of colorful or soft fabrics. 

“Hordere!”  “Hordere!  Wel ðu fiht!”

Éomer smiled, feeling oddly indulgent as the Steward flushed redly at the flood of praises.  He glanced aside to Faramir, who caught his gaze and, surprisingly, ducked his head at once with an uneasy chuckle.

Ah…Éomer laughed aloud and Faramir’s face darkened.  His sense of indulgence increased, a warm sort of brotherly fondness growing as he observed the man’s embarrassment and pleasure.  Éomer’s smile widened and he felt himself walk a little easier beside the Steward.

 Faramir was laughing and shaking his head to all overtures, protesting in slow and careful Rohirric that it was mere luck that he’d come so far in the tourney.  But the man did pause, frowning about himself at all the various stalls and wares.  “Tell me, what would she like…what do you think she would like, if I were to buy her something?”  Faramir had spoken with unusual nervousness; Éomer answered just as uneasily. 

        “You…don’t know?”

        “Éowyn can be difficult to guess…” Éomer laughed and the Steward relaxed a little, smiling, “And I’ve no experience in buying presents for women, Ladies or Shieldmaidens.”

        And you think I have?  Éomer clamped his jaw on an uproarious burst of laughter, muscles loosening with a wave of amusement.  “Well…” The vendor’s cries quieted to eager respect as they slowed and neared the closest stall.  It was crowded with a rough assortment of jewelry and other offerings, their owner standing in subdued deference, only moving to turn one thing or another to show a better angle or coax a brighter shine.  He shook his head, dismissing the items almost immediately.  “She wears what you’ve brought and seems happy with it, you should not worry.”

        “Yes…” But the Steward only frowned anew. 

        Éomer glanced at the sparkling things; he’d never seen his sister wear such before Faramir.  He shook his head again and admitted, “I am no help.”  The Steward sighed deeply. 

He shifted his feet and spoke after a moment, striking conversation before the opportunity waned, “Luck, you say?”

        “Aye, and a good horse.”  Appearing far more at ease, Faramir grinned at him, “I want that horse.”

        “That one?”  Éomer was surprised, though not terribly.  Many men became attached to their mounts; it was just…he is so coarse…of poor quality!  Something in the Steward’s gaze told him not to mention the gelding’s obvious poor breeding.  He shrugged inwardly, beginning to walk again.  The grey was hardly a prize: knob-headed, heavy-limbed, long-eared and lame now.  He wants what he wants…Éomer snorted in silent amusement.  After my sister, I thought he had good taste!

        But Faramir was clearly not jesting in any way.  “Yes.”

        “If you wish.”  He shook his head and chuckled, feeling a bit of woe tinge his jest, “A horse, a man, my sister…” Éomer turned to him with a playful half-bow, “Is there anything else I can fetch you, my Lord?”  He gestured to the Mark with a wide pass of his arm and hand and laughed ruefully, “Anything that catches your fancy?”

“You may fetch me dinner.”  Faramir grinned at him and he saw the man’s grey eyes flicker, the faint sympathy that arose there, just a touch, just a glinting shine of reflected grief in depths the color of steel, wavering and deepening with emotion into the glare of a squall at sunset, clouds dark as cinders.

 “As you will it.”  

Looking down at his boots, Éomer smiled a little, glad for the compassion he could so easily read—it made him feel less alone, less downhearted to know that one person at least could understand and, if indirectly, share his sorrow.  This is why my sister loves him, why she shall leave me and the Golden Hall for him, not wealth or power, but…heart, soul…he was near sure of it.  After all, sweet words she had in plenteousness from Gaer; she could get wealth out of any man of nobility from here to the Sea; love and deference from most any male he’d ever seen look at her…  What else is there?  He laughed to himself and glanced at Faramir.  Enchanter, I knew it.  The man had only looked at her with his puppyish, understanding eyes and his sister had folded.  That is his secret.

He’d answered smartly enough to make the Steward laugh, though he did so only cautiously.  

But such caution was disappearing.  Éomer could see it slipping from the Steward’s eyes and he found a sense of rest coming over him watching the man gaze about in eagerness, his step light, no longer drawn and wary of each word and gesture.  The man I met is not the man I know…or perhaps this man lives only here, far from his City or his kin…  He could not tell, looking quietly and carefully to the Steward.  He takes less care…  His observation was confirmed with the offhand command,

“Come, I’m hungry.” 

Faramir had turned, glancing at him with curiosity and impatience.   A wide, crooked grin took any offense or authority from his words at once. 

Grunting his reply, something which made the Steward grin anew in a flash of amusement, Éomer lengthened his strides.  He was hungry too, remembering the lavish spread he’d left behind with his sister.  Éomer eyed the rough tables set near open-air kitchens where ruddy-faced women toiled over sod ovens.  Young boys and girls served, gathering pence in already full, jangling purses.  His mouth watered at the rich scent of cooking. 

        There was a steady, flanking moment from his right, his left; Éomer started, then relaxed.  He’d forgotten his guards shadowed them, the men seen just out of the corner of his eye, watching, waiting, hands near but not touching the golden hilts of their weapons.  The crowd parted for them, creating a small empty area about him and Faramir, making it both easier and more conspicuous to walk or do anything.  Éomer felt a rush of irritation and smothered it.  This was part of his new existence as Lord; he ought to get used to it.  He sighed and sat at a vacated table, nodding quietly at the folk that had quickly slipped away, offering the place to their King. 

It would have been unbearable not to accept.  The Steward sat across from him and neither spoke until, finally, Faramir leaned on his elbow, flicking a crumb off of the rough surface of the table.  He made a show of frowning.  “How long is a meal?”

        The Steward was trying to cheer him.  Éomer played along, shifting his weight on the hard wooden bench, “It depends on their mood.”

        The man gave him a conspiratorial glance, grinning from the side of his mouth.  “Should we storm it, give him a show like you gave me in the gardens?  Terrify him right and properly?”

        For a moment he was puzzled, then Éomer felt himself turn crimson; he dropped his eyes at once, face hot.  The gardens!  Recalling his boorish conduct, half prodded by brotherly rage and fear as well as arrogance, he was mortified, barely able to reply.  He shook his head, words stilted with discomfort.  “No…I think not.”  Éomer could not even remember his justifications at the time.  A test?  Of what?  He shook his head again, disgusted with himself.

        “No?  I thought that was fitting behavior for your folk!”  Across the bare tabletop, Faramir grinned a touch too cheerfully; Éomer wondered if the man had picked up on his embarrassment and if his jesting was meant to relieve him.  The Steward leaned forward, asking, “Tell me…was that just for me?”

He picked at a rough indention in the wood, stretching his legs and laughing a little tensely as Faramir added,

 “Aragorn warned me not to think such the first day.”  He chuckled, “Said you would treat any man the same…”

        “No.”  Éomer smiled as Faramir’s expression changed to surprise, then intrigue.  Something of the Prince came back to him as his back straightened, his scraped fingers lacing and his features assuming an expression of genial interest.   “It was all just for you, the others were easier to intimidate.  They were all boys.”  He chuckled and felt a chill, the prelude to a flash of buried rage.  Save one, one whose head I would have on a pike at this moment if he but showed his face within my lands!  His hand sought out, then tightened on Gûthwinë’s sun-warmed hilt, feeling regret that it had not been drawn long before.

        “Was it?”  The Steward’s face was full of curiosity, like he’d never guessed. 

        “Yes.  Of all the men or lads unwise enough to look at my sister, you were still, one could say…” Éomer smiled, glancing at him to share his sarcasm with a grin, “Remarkably graced with my favors.”  He called for food and drink then, saying the first thing that came to his mind, not adding what he wished—you bore me with patience, my friend, offering again and again the hand I slapped away.  Éomer spoke to keep himself from crossing into shameful sentimentalism; he was entirely too sober for that.  “Tell me how you made the arrow go so high, then fall just where you wanted it.”

        Faramir’s eyes brightened.  He laughed sheepishly, “It was luck, pure luck.”

        “Truly?”  His mouth fell open, remembering the Steward’s confident stance.  “You looked…”

        “I was like this,” His fingers interlaced and locked, white-knuckled, “Inside.  Dying,” Faramir shook his head with a laugh, “Calling myself a proud fool, cursing myself to lose in such a fashion.”

        “Then how…?”  Maids came bearing bowls of stew and small loaves of bread, mugs of ale.  There were no spoons and he drank from the bowl, relishing the decidedly unKingly act.

        “I’ve done it before, but with practice shots to get the angle right, the resistance from the wind, the distance…” Faramir did not complain about the rough fare, dipping his bread and eating it in sopping chunks.

Éomer listened dutifully to talk of angles and wind speeds, of weights and pulls, soon lost in a world he could just barely understand, as he was not a fellow archer.  He frowned, mildly frustrated at first; he did not work in words, and those flowed from the Steward like a fount.  But as he paid heed, they began to take shape, forming with eerie clarity.  “That is…incredible to learn all of that.”

“No more than to learn the art of the blade: the foot, the arm, the eye and the sword.”  Éomer nodded, acknowledging the compliment.  Faramir grinned boyishly, gesturing with his bit of bread, “In fair weather with clear sight and a straight bow, I can put a bolt where I please.  It takes no more than hours upon hours of practice, years of honing one’s craft.”

        Éomer glanced at him over the rim of his bowl and shook his head.  “I have not the patience for the bow, my friend.”

“I could have guessed that.”  Drinking the last of his stew and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Faramir laughed lightly, easily, with open enjoyment.  It was, Éomer reflected with no small chagrin, a nice sound that he’d heard too little of. 

He joined him before sighing, “You have grown too bold, I fear, or myself too tame.”  A grin he couldn’t deny tugged at his mouth as he jested, “Where is the respect you gave me before?”  As he pretended to think it over, Éomer managed to scowl in mock dismay, glowering blackly and rather hammishly.  He puckered his brow and leaned forward, curling his lip in a mockery of his own temper; Faramir’s appreciation showed in his spreading grin.  He snickered as though he could not help it as Éomer narrowed his eyes and growled thickly, “Tell me, where has the time you would have feared to laugh at me gone?”

“I don’t k-know…”  Voice breaking, Faramir laughed delightedly at his theatrics and Éomer was startled by the warmth that arose in his own heart….Théodred…it was a pang of loss, a moment of shadowy grief that slipped by too quickly, eclipsed by this new and growing sense of camaraderie.  The man before him was laughing, shaking his head with clear amusement as he declared, “My Lord, ‘tis gone, long gone, I’m afraid!” 

Éomer smiled quietly, fingers nervously tapping at his leg, emotions he had no words for enveloping his heart.  Gone indeed, and I am glad...it is quite good.  When he looked over again, the Steward was grinning and his grey eyes held such indisputable affection and pleasure that Éomer coughed and looked down quickly.  Faramir’s soft laugh was kind and good-naturedly chiding, embarrassing him further.

Glancing around himself and seeking to restore their more comfortably neutral mode of interaction, he could see the sun just hovering over the horizon like a ball of liquid copper.  “Do you want to look again for a present?  There are many other places, we could have better luck.”       

        “Aye, I would.”  Faramir grinned in surprising enthusiasm, jumping up from their table with the alacrity of a man who’d not spent his day in contests or fallen with his mount to the unforgiving earth. 

***

        Gaer paused at the table; his face was filled with a self-disgusted sort of amusement while he admitted, “I fear to sit with you, my Lady.”

        She sat in her brother’s place, ordering her skirts and getting comfortable in the great, wide chair.  Éowyn smiled up at the waiting Rider, “Did you not contest so boldly and so well for this, Gaer?”  She laughed, “Was it not your idea to have me alone?”  Éowyn smiled again, feeling a little thrill as he glanced to her, features reddening.

“Aye, my Lady.”  Gaer’s harmless admiration was pleasant, not at all alarming, and she relished this new sensation of being openly admired and adored by a man not Faramir…and yet still a man not feared.

She gestured, “Then sit, take your reward.”

 He stared about himself again, then shook his head.  “Aye, but I’d not imagined the act of it.”  The Rohir laughed at himself and looked to the table, then the chair by her side.  Éowyn tried to see it through the eyes of a common soldier, the fine cloth, cups and dishes, the dainty food, the mellow wines. 

        “Come, Gaer, I shall command if it will ease your heart!”

        He laughed again, but his words were as hesitant as his footsteps.  “Aye…” 

        His eyes moved quicker than his feet and Éowyn smiled in more empathy, sharing, “You look like I felt to dine in the White Tower.”

        “Is that so?”  At once he was sliding into the chair, curiously looking to her and saying warmly.  “I doubt my Lady knows the meaning of fear.”

        She laughed fondly and shook her head at his foolishness, “I fear many things.”

        “Nay.”  He was beaming at her, affectionately teasing.  “Not my Lady of the Shield Arm.”

        Shaking her head more ruefully, she toyed with her wine.  “Aye, I fear many things, too many.”  Éowyn frowned. 

        Gaer smiled and it held no hint of ardency or exuberance, but was rather gentle, utterly simple.  “Share them, my L—” He caught himself, “Éowyn?”

        She looked down to the plate being laden with some sort of savory meat and sighed.  “If it interests you.”

        “It does.”  The Rohir nodded once, briskly.  Repeating himself, his voice quieted and she heard the love he felt for her again.  “It does.”

        Éowyn smiled a little.  His love was nice, the chaste adoration of a Knight to his Lady.  It put no pressure such as Faramir’s and she felt curiously at ease.  “All right.”

***

         “Hæl, min Hlaford, Hordere.”  They were interrupted, if politely.   Éomer lifted his head and smiled at once; obviously the men and lads had little interest in him—other than a mannerly greeting, they were barely looking his way. 

“Hæl.”  With a practiced, lordly nod, he acknowledged them and took a slight step back, allowing the freed men to crowd around the Steward.  Éomer smiled as his sister’s paramour blinked, and then broke into a wide, flustered grin at the praise and questions that were immediately put to him.  Most were praise for the Steward’s efforts in the tourney.

        “Ic sæcge eow þancas.”  Faramir gave a slight bow and thanks, inky hair swinging; his command of their tongue had never been so perfect. 

        Éomer was surprised to hear the men invite the Steward with them, only to quickly invite him as well, anxious not to insult their liege Lord.  “Ná, ná.”  He shook his head, declining quietly, trying not to smile as his sister’s lover became slightly alarmed. 

        Faramir looked even more flustered.  “You are sure you will not come?”  He was abruptly uncertain, gazing at the men around him with the open nervousness of a foreigner. 

        “Yes.”  Warmed by the plea, he patted the man’s shoulder.  Éomer did it in a brotherly fashion, though still very gingerly, unsure of how to go about the familiar gesture.  The Steward looked surprised at the contact, but said nothing.  It had been long since he’d had a man close to him.  This time when he thought, Théodred, and was reminded of the idea of comparing the two, his sister’s lover and his cousin, it came with less repugnance and pain, and more comfort.  He grinned, squeezing Faramir’s shoulder with more confidence.  “You don’t need me, you know our tongue, enough of our ways,” He chuckled, “And I trust you can defend yourself.”  Pausing to lower his voice, he added, “I hope you shall, it is not just your head she would have, my friend.”  Éomer snorted, “I would be held in terrible fault for allowing you to wander off unguarded.”

        “Aye, you would!”  The Steward laughed in a great burst of shared amusement, then sighed.  Faramir’s voice lowered, became more frank, “I would like your company.”

        Éomer’s heart was warmed again, but he refused once more.  I would not stand between him and them, not be a hindrance to their acceptance…he smiled more fondly.  Faramir has tried too hard.  “Go, enjoy yourself.  This is why you are here.”

        “No it’s not.” 

He blinked.  “I meant the…” Éomer raised one hand to gesture to the crowd around them, the banners, the merriment. 

“Aye, I know.”  As he frowned, Faramir only smiled and nodded and went with the men that had surrounded him.

        Éomer stood for a moment, silent, aware of his loneliness.  His guards flanked him at a distance, ever alert, but were hardly company.  His sister was busy with her new champion, Arwen retired…he had none to walk or speak with, none to relax with as equal. 

Éomer sighed.  It was with a downcast heart that he walked into the evening, not knowing what he would do next.

The void within his chest seemed only to grow and grow.

***

Éowyn felt a tickle in the back of her mind, the sensation of Faramir…he was…merry, quite merry and the corners of her mouth tugged in response.  What are you doing?  She frowned in concentration, but felt little more than…dizziness, amusement, the echo of his cursing at a few twinges of pain.  He was coming closer from the feel of it and soon, from his seat at her right, Gaer’s eyes lifted.  The Rider ceased his soft monologue, blinked and then laughed aloud, jerking his red-fuzzed chin in indication.

Faramir stumbled against the chair on her left, half-falling into it with a weary grunt and gesture, a rude complaint loud with his noticeable drunkenness.  “Off with you!”  A bit of her well-mannered Prince returned as he laughed in a less belligerent tone, “A meal the Lady granted, not a night!”

“Aye.”  Gaer was grinning, yet his pale eyes were fixed to hers once more.  “My Lady, with your word?”

They’d not finished, but she nodded and the Rider rose to move away into the evening. 

“Good.”  Faramir smiled at her, wide and loose and slightly asinine; it was a smile she’d never seen.  She’d never seen him drunk at all.  Éowyn returned it, amused and disgusted all at once. 

Where is my Prince? 

Hmm?  Gazing at her, Faramir chuckled and declared.  “I like the Mark.”

 She sighed and smoothed her gown, lying her knife down with careful precision before lifting her gaze.  He was sprawled in the chair, long legs extended every which way, shoulders askew, hands limply hanging from the chair’s arms, a marked change from his normally erect posture.  “I can tell.”

“Mmmm.”  His senseless smile was still in place.  Suddenly, he straightened and leaned closer to her as though to kiss, putting himself off balance, and she watched him catch himself with a hasty palm slapped to the table, jerking upright.  Faramir blinked and then laughed and looked at her with more humility and more sobriety. 

“Sit back before you fall on me.”  With an impatient exhale, Éowyn pushed him back into the chair and her Prince slumped there, his face falling into more familiar lines of contemplation, a whimsical smile coming now and again as he chuckled.   

“I was celebrating.”

“What?”

He broke into high-pitched laughter, convulsing in the chair, gasping.  “I—I don’t know.  The words…all ran together and they spoke at once, congratulating me, asking questions, there were too many.  All shoving drinks in my hand, shouting about this and that.”  Leaning back, his long legs stretched before him, her Prince shook all over with his mirth.

Éowyn smiled.  “You are a fool drunk.”

“Aye.”  Faramir giggled again, making her laugh in simultaneous indulgence and bother.  He took a deep breath and waved a hand to the table, his arresting eyes only half-lidded.  “What…what did you do?”

“We spoke of many things.”  Gaer was a good listener, offering careful counsel, more careful still to not remark on things that he held no experience in, refraining from advice.  Her mind wandered to a more purposeful path and she thought he would aid my brother well in matters of state…  Éowyn glanced down the long tabletop still littered with full dishes.  They’d not eaten much, preoccupied with talk of the City.  Faramir’s brow had creased as though he was concentrating very hard either on her words or in attempting to read her thoughts.  She gave him a glance of mock sternness.  “We’d not finished.”

“No?”  He blinked at her.  “It is after dark.”

“Aye.”  Éowyn tried not to laugh.  “Meals in your Hall of Feasts lasted just as long.”

“We…we are not in the City…” His face clouded for a moment but when she looked to him again, it was gone.

She sighed and pushed away her plate.  “No, we are not.”  Faramir’s brow was still lined and his gaze was focused into the distance.  Éowyn shook her head as she stood.  “Come, it is late.”

His eyes snapped back to hers.  “Where?” 

She shook her head in new laughter.  He must have drunk more than she’d guessed, he was usually more attentive.  “You to your tent, me to mine.”

His warm hand caught her arm.  Faramir sounded more sober now, “Must you?”

She nearly laughed at him again, turning to smile.  “Where do you suggest?” 

Her Prince was swaying a bit and getting to his feet with an effort, tugging on her so that she braced herself.  “We could fetch a cloak and…”

“And?”  He was drunk, or he’d been.  Éowyn frowned a little, the slightest of wariness beginning to unfold within her stomach.  She was unused to him being so relaxed, so uninhibited. 

“And lie together…on the grass…” His voice was softer now, husky and pleading; it did not seem amorous, only needy.  Faramir’s grey eyes were held to hers.  “Before you are gone.” 

“All right.”  Éowyn took a step away and felt his tug back. 

His grin shone in the dimness and in his voice the rebirth of her mannered Prince came with shocking suddenness.  “Your cloak will be cleaner, my Lady.”

“Aye.”  She laughed, tension instantly forgotten.  “I will fetch one.”

***

He ached all over, but his pains had faded to a sort of warmth with the draught and the drink.  Faramir sighed and watched the folk of the Mark move around him: Riders gambling in the light of fires, women talking in groups while children either slept in piles on blankets or ran back and forth in loud games.  Their skin gleamed from the firelight, their flaxen hair shone in hues of gold and copper, their limbs were light and darting as they ran. 

Faramir watched more closely, no longer aware of his surroundings, drawn by the children and their laughter.  Their high, delighted voices and lighthearted minds were soothing, uplifting, making him feel like a great and terrible thing was at once stripped from his soul, a weight sliding from his shoulders, no longer heavy but light and whipping away on the dusty winds of the Wold.  He bowed his head briefly, then lifted it, unable to look away.

All sights were foreign; none would have been those of his youth or of his adulthood save those seen in glimpses in the lower levels, the festivals outside the walls of the City.  He’d had level-voiced tutors, soldiers and archers teaching him skills of war while scores of white-haired savants had raised him.  Mithrandir taught him skills of the mind as best he’d could but none had told him the simple pleasure of a body wearied in rough games as had the men of the Mark.

Faramir lifted his eyes to the stars, exhaling in a great rush of contentment.  All I have is all I have wished for…but that was untrue and he frowned, lowering his brow once more.  Faint footsteps, the crunch of dried grasses heralded his love’s return.   

He turned and wearily smiled.  Her answering smile soon changed and faded.  “What is it?”

“Nothing.”  Faramir managed to stand straighter, to take her arm and pull her with him into the darkness.  Éowyn’s eyes gleamed with the light of the fires, the stars; they did not leave his face, searching it until he sighed deeply.  “I will miss you.”

“I know.”  Subdued, she shook out the cloak and spread it over the dry, crackling grass.  He kneeled painfully and gestured her closer. 

She came to lean against him, her chin pointed downward and he sighed again.  Must you…the words welled up in his chest and it was only with great will power that he kept them bottled.  Gently pulling her, he stretched out with Éowyn curled against his side.  Faramir gazed at the stars but they only reminded him of the stars that he’d worn not long ago—and with such pride!—and he closed his eyes.  I do not wish to return. 

        He felt himself tensing and took a great breath to release it.  I do not wish to return… 

        Part of him rose up in outrage.  Do I not love my country still?  Would I forsake my duties, renounce my blood, my fathers and the oaths I took as a boy, then a man? 

        Faramir gripped the dry, hard dirt in his free hand, scratches burning as the long green hills of Ithilien replayed in his mind’s eye, the white stone walls of the house in his dreams, the bare land that he knew merely awaited kindling to be born into a princedom.  Nay…

        Then…he ground his teeth, unable to articulate his desires.  Éowyn cuddled closer and Faramir tightened his arm about her shoulders, feeling lost. 

        “I’m sorry.”  Her voice was very small, her breath unsure.

        “Shh.”  They did not speak again.  He took small comfort in her nearness, eventually feeling her relax and turn to him.  Her skin warmed and rubbed softly against his as their hands clasped and Faramir thought that it would not be so long that he stayed, not so long before they were together again and in wedlock…not so long.

        Is that why…?

        He licked his lips, tension coiling in his belly.  I cower away from the thought of duties…I am less than Father imagined…his eyes burned briefly.  Éowyn stirred, inhaling deeply.  He heard her make a noise of distress.

        What is wrong, Faramir?

        Nothing, nothing, lie quiet…

        She felt his lie and tensed.

        Faramir shifted so he could stroke her hair, forcing his thoughts into stillness, his anxiety down.  The bonfires had burned low by the time he rose and pulled her up as well.  Few moved now, the stars had swung high into the sky; it was late.  She did not smile, only gazing at him in silence.  He pressed a kiss to her cheek, parting with a semblance of pleasure.  I would lie so forever and not rise…

        Coward…

        “Goodnight, Faramir.”

        “Goodnight.”  His smile flickered uncertainly.  Her eyes finally leaving his, Éowyn moved away in the dark, her light gown softly glowing.          

        The next day was like the others save that he found less pleasure in competition.  When Éowyn called for him, Faramir did not protest, nor correct her when she frowned, “You’re sore still…”

        His aches were precious, proof of belonging and delight in his belonging, a brother to these North folk.  Faramir rubbed his arms self-consciously.  “Some.”       

She nodded, “Do you wish a draught?” 

“No.”  She frowned and he relented with a forced smile.  “Aye, I might.”  As she moved away, Faramir glanced up, feeling a weight.  Éomer’s eyes lowered instantly and the Lord of the Mark feigned interest in the slow passing of high, light clouds.

He sighed in a long, drawn out breath, only his hand betraying him to fidget about the golden hilt of his sword.  “Rain…”

“Aye, that it would.”  His tone was too clipped.  Faramir shifted his feet restlessly and stopped himself.  What ails me…but cowardice?  His jaw clamped tight.

He felt a touch again—Éomer had glanced to him, then away again just as swiftly, clearly too uncertain in their jocularity to question.

Faramir lowered his head again and waited upon his draught.

Trans.

We eart sighbeorht!—We are victorious!

Hordere! Hordere!  Wel ðu fiht!—Steward!  Steward!  Well you fight!

 My apologies for such a short chapter but I have been suffering from writer's block...the next section of the story, I feel, will change the characters greatly and I've not quite been able to strike on the correct way to show this.  I think I'd rather wait and figure it out than post something I feel is inadequate to the story.  Thank you for all of your encouragement and, most of all, for not forgetting my story!