Faramir moved slowly through the trees, muffling his footsteps with the Ranger knowledge he’d learned over the years, now so ingrained it was virtually instinctual. Ghostly, even in the sunny afternoon, he was a shadow, moving with the wind, waiting for the slight sways of the branches.  He felt oddly naked without his bow, but he kept moving, stepping around tree roots and flowers, barely disturbing the foliage.  Boots pressing the green growth to the earth, lightly holding his position, checking his prey for any signs of jumpiness, he stepped on, closing in with each vigilantly controlled stride. Passing through the gardens, he felt himself drain out, the familiar, welcomed sensation of pure tranquility as all the fear, anxiety and pain of before disappeared into the soft air.  Stopping in the shadow of a pine, his mind gently focused on the hobbits’, well aware of their location. Careful, Faramir reminded himself nervously, and probed just a little bit deeper for their thoughts. It was easy; hobbits’ minds were unguarded and receptive.  He wondered with envy, what kind of land do they live in to be so open-minded and unafraid?

Merry was thinking, his hands anxiously digging into the dirt, “Oh, no…he’s gonna get us.” He squealed mentally, but was outwardly silent.

From Pippin’s mind he gathered, “I bet I can get away, Merry’s slower, Gandalf’ll get him for sure.” The younger hobbit made the bushes rustle as he fidgeted, readying to bolt, startling himself into stillness. They were looking at the wizard, who was approaching them directly, staff raised. Faramir inched closer, knowing he was unseen.

            “Meriadoc Brandybuck!  Peregrin Took!  Get out of those bushes!” He bellowed, raising his staff to slam it on the ground.  There was no response.  Faramir moved, slipping around the trees, his good hand trailing on the rough bark, silently commanding/asking the small woods around him to not remark upon his passage.  The afternoon, the bright sun just beginning its slanting, dimming descent through the undergrowth, grew more and more quiet. Birds settled their feathers, snakes flicked their tongues, and mice twitched, eyes wide, all watching the man slip through their domain.  Here he was but a lowly servant, clumsy, loud and foolish; while they, the bird, the mouse, the snake--they were the ruling monarchs of this green little thicket in King Elessar’s garden.  A king snake froze in his path, black scales gleaming, ocher eyes watching him and Faramir carefully gave it room even though it was harmless.  There was the slight fluttering of an observing bird, but obedient to his wishes and placated by his courtesy, none spoke or made any movements. I thank thee verily, Faramir thought, projecting the ritual response to the earth, sky, plants, and animals around him. There was, as always, the warm, vague answer that comforted and gave him confidence—Go on, man of the south people.   With their permission, he slipped forward in the calm silence, both his hands twitching, the left rather painfully, feeling empty without his bow. The only loud thing now was Gandalf.  “Do not make me come in and get you!” He growled, shaking his staff.  There was a tiny yelp of fear.

             Pippin, Faramir thought; he was now close enough that a leap would catch them.  He held still, listening, blending in as the trees extended their shadows for him to veil himself in. I thank thee verily, may thee live long with bright sun and cool rain. He watched as Gandalf moved forward, crouching and energetically poking the bushes.  Faramir tried not to laugh; he felt surprisingly good, centered and calmed as he crept through the woods.  There were sudden cries as the staff connected with plump flesh and two hobbits hurled themselves out of the bushes and ran for the arch to the Citadel, dirty bare feet pelting the grass.  Effortlessly extending himself into a sprint, Faramir lunged forward from his hidden spot, his fingers catching Merry’s collar.  He snatched him up and back as Merry yelped in shock; obviously, he hadn’t even known Faramir was there.  Using one hand, he held the older hobbit tight, grip firm on his shirt even though he twisted desperately, bucking.  Pippin dodged impressively, arms pumping, head down, but didn’t make it.  Gandalf, moving with surprising speed, tripped him up with his staff.  The younger hobbit fell to the ground with a whoompf! and Merry gave up, going limp against Faramir’s leg. 

           “That was easy.” Faramir remarked. Merry scowled up at him, dirt smeared across his face.  He wondered why Éowyn and the hobbits were so dirty and resolved to ask her.

            “Always is with hobbits.” Gandalf chuckled and prodded the surly Pippin with his staff. “Up, lad.  You have work to do.” Pippin scowled and Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think you’d get away with it did you?  As if, after stealing him, I’d let you put Shadowfax away without so much as cleaning off all that mud you let him roll in?”

          “Let him?” Pippin snorted, standing up.  He didn’t bother to brush himself off, and Faramir, eyeing the remarkable amount of dirt on the hobbit, had to agree with that decision.

Gandalf glowered. “If you’re lucky I’ll give you a curry you insolent little thing.”  He smacked Pippin’s shin with the staff, jabbing the hobbit into line. 

        “I thought you’d left.” Merry was staring up at him wide-eyed as Faramir tugged him over to Gandalf.  “I saw you walk out. How’d you get back in?”

          “It was magic.”  He smiled wanly, not entirely over his incident with Éomer, but much better after tracking the hobbits.

          “Ah, Meriadoc.” Gandalf said. “You can aid your cousin in,” Merry made a face of horrified disgust that Faramir felt was a bit over the top, “cleaning him.”

          “But…” Pippin wailed in protest. “He’s so big, it’ll take ages! We’re too small!”

           “I want that horse to shine, Peregrin. I don’t care how long it takes you.”

         “But…” Merry opened his mouth. Gandalf glared at him and he wisely shut it. 

         “You took him out, you clean him up.  Thank you, Faramir, for your assistance.”

        “You’re welcome.”

 Faramir smiled as the wizard herded the two hobbits away and began to wonder how long it would be before Éowyn would come.  She’d said an hour, so he walked back into the wood, forming a purpose to kill the remaining time.  The cooling shadows comforted him, soothing his troubled thoughts.  He’d loved learning the Ranger craft—stealth and the merging of man and earth.  Coming to the very middle of the thicket, he sank to the ground, resting against the base of an oak.  The tree was welcoming, curious as Faramir settled his back to its trunk. 

           Control, Faramir thought, leaning back against the rough bark, find the center.  This was a trick, a centering exercise that he’d been taught long ago to clear his mind.  Closing his eyes, Faramir stretched out his legs, resting his hands on his lap.  He breathed slowly, in and out, trying to hear his heartbeat.  There, he found it, the firm thumping of muscle rising to his attention.  Body relaxing, he focused on the sound, and then began to concentrate on steadying his pulse; this took skill and practice, it was several minutes before he could succeed in gradually slowing it further, monitoring the beat.  He floated in his mind, trying not to think.  Only when he was completely centered would he try and relive Éomer’s memory.  Faramir wished to see it again; he felt there was something important about it, to make the man remember it so vividly.

          He lost track of time, utterly relaxed and balanced, until a new sound brought him back up through the subtle, delicate levels of his consciousness.  A breeze cooled his cheek and he opened his eyes, gazing around for what had disturbed him.  The light was slightly more orange as it slanted through the trees; Faramir guessed he hadn’t been too long.   He moved to sit up, and stopped, listening, knees bent, good hand braced against the tree.  A woman was singing softly.  He extended his consciousness; more confident now that he’d centered himself, and discovered it was Éowyn.  Her voice is beautiful, he thought in pleased surprise, pulling himself up to his feet and leaning against the oak.  Low and heartrending, she sang,

“Ǽ, æftergǽð me tó se ea,

æftergǽð me tó se scead,

iernð mid me a,

missenlice…

Ge næfre ligeð,

 hwil se ceolas blǽwð,

Ge næfre ábrýc,

oþþe sægð.

Ac?”

            There was a pause, in which Faramir began to walk through the copse, his boots making no reverberation on the ground dampened with the evening’s first dew.  A squirrel darted across his path, but Faramir’s attention was focused on his beloved’s voice.   Clearer and rising, Éowyn continued; she not so much mournful now, but almost desperately pleading with something,

“Ierre, ídel!

 Min deare, ætbirsteð,

 æftergǽð se wind,

  Héodæg, ge eart ná min…

 Ǽ, inbelýcð min heorte.

  Ge hæfð nípð oð lenctentíma…”

The last three lines were almost grim, yet with a deeply bitter undercurrent that fascinated him. He stepped from the trees, still ghosting unconsciously through the orange light of the slowly lowering sun.  Enthralled by her soft, melancholy voice, Faramir did not announce himself.  Instead he stepped closer, gazing upon her—Éowyn’s head was bent as she sat on the bench, her thick hair pulled back into a golden river that flowed down the back of blue gown she wore, it folds gleaming like fire, capturing the sunlight, and he stopped, doubly enchanted by her voice and her beauty.  With a sigh, she continued, gently swinging her feet,

“Cymð bæc,

min lufiend,

 Ic synd eower,

 a ge eart na min.”

            The bitterness tore at Faramir’s heart.  She laughed once; darkly and completely unaware he was only a few feet away.  He stepped closer, now almost to her side and spoke,

            “Why is that song so sad?”  Éowyn jumped, whirling on the bench, her eyes wide. Her fear pressed against him and he blurted, “I’m sorry.” She nodded slowly, one hand to her chest.  “I...I didn’t mean to startle you.” Faramir quickly added.    

            “I didn’t know you were there, or else...” She fell quiet, looking down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.

            Faramir hesitated, wondering how upset she was. “I liked it.” He got an inkling when she immediately snapped back, looking up at him,

            “How?  You can’t even understand it.”

            “So?” He sat on the end of the bench, careful to give her plenty of room. “It’s still beautiful.” Like you, he added silently, watching her closely, noting a strand of her hair had come down.  It clung to her cheek, a tiny flaxen river on a soft peach plain and he wished to brush it away, but she was wary of him, and he sensed if he tried to move closer, she’d retreat, maybe even leave.  “Tell me what it says.”

            “Why?” It was mildly suspicious.

            “I said I liked it, and you said I didn’t understand it, so…” 

            “It is a woman’s song.” She’d looked away, her voice tight, but her hair couldn’t hide her face, tied back like it was.  Faramir gazed at her profile, trying to find a way to smooth things.  Will it be like this, he thought in a sudden burst of despair, will it always be one step forward, two back?

  “I am only a man, but I will try to grasp it.” He managed a hopeful, supporting smile through his annoyance.

She sighed deeply. “It is about a woman, whose lover does not love her any longer.”

            “Tell me the words.” Faramir encouraged. 

            “It begins, Oh, follow me to the river, follow me to the shade, run with me forever, here and there…you never sleep, while the cold winds blow…” To his delight she’d been singing very softly, her voice low and sad, notes dropping like silver tears.  Suddenly Éowyn abruptly stopped and stood. “This is foolish.”

            He gazed up, distraught. “No, no it’s not, really…”

            “I do not wish to, Faramir.” There was now the distinct sound of steel but, wishing to hear the rest, he rebelled.

            “Why not?”

            “Does it matter?” He was silent at her grim, vicious tone.  Again she spoke, “I only wanted to say this to you,” She looked down at him, and licked her lips nervously, then straightened.  However, the level of her anxiety spiked, alarming him. “I…” She took a deep breath and composed herself, “I am sorry if I wasted your time Faramir, but I can’t…”

            “No.” Faramir was on his feet before he was even aware of moving, his heart stuttering with fear in his chest.  “No.”

            “I can’t…”

            “Don’t, Éowyn, please.” If she didn’t say it, it would not happen and he could make it right.  He stepped forward, but she pulled back. “I beg you, do not.”

            She continued doggedly over his protests, her eyes grieved as she retreated, “I don’t want to waste your time, making you be with someone who can’t…”

            “It’s not a waste, please, just stand still, listen…” Faramir paced her as she moved, continually keeping the bench between them. His heart was pounding with fear, all of his control gone.  He tried to touch her mind, but couldn’t, his own was too turbulent to concentrate.  “Éowyn…” Finally, desperate to reach her, he gathered himself, adrenaline racing through his veins, and sprang over the stone bench to grab her arm. 

            She gasped as he grasped her.  “Let me go.” She whispered, but did not pull back. 

            Faramir was adamant; gripping her so tightly he would later be able to see the individual bruises from his fingers. “No.”  He pressed his forehead to her temple as she turned her head from him. “Never,” She took a breath to speak, “and you can’t say anything to make me, Éowyn.”

            “Why not?” It was desperate, but he would not be moved.  She choked, a short sob of defeat and slumped against his shoulder.  “Please, why won’t you let me go?”

            It was like a knife in his guts.  “Do you have to ask?”

            “You say you love me.” She spoke tiredly, her voice grey with hopelessness. 

            “I don’t just say.” He swallowed. “I do.” Then, the question, the one whose answer might send him over the walls, plunging to his death, body breaking on the hard, merciless stones, or let him live in happiness, with a new life, all his old griefs behind him forever,  “Don’t you love me…the least bit, too, Éowyn?”

            There was no answer, only her rapid breathing.  Faramir’s heart turned black with despair as the silence mounted, pressing against his chest, making it hard to breathe.  He trembled, awaiting. 

Complete Lyrics to Woman's Lament ( my original Rohirric  song, go me)--

Oh, follow me to the river, 

 Follow me to the shade,

 Run with me forever,

Here and there…

You never sleep,

While the cold winds blow,

You never eat

Or speak.

Why?

Wild, useless!

My dear, break away,

Follow the wind,

Today, you are not mine…

Oh, shut my heart.

You have grown dark until spring...

Come back, my lover,

I am yours,

But you are not mine.