Éowyn’s eyes were tightly closed.  “Don’t you love me?  He asked, stepping slowly towards her. His voice was mocking; he knew she hated him with all her being.  Turning almost pitying, he murmured, “Why do you shrink?”

            “Get back.” Éowyn whispered.  She wanted to scream the words and he knew it.  Gríma grinned confidently, stepping closer in the dark hall.  Her eyes darted to the left, ten paces away was safety—Éomer’s room.  But between her and it, he stood, his face gloating and hissed,

            “Do it. Cry out for him.” She shook her head once. “You should, my dear.” He took another step towards her. “The King’s men would give him a quicker death than the orcs.”

            Éowyn clenched her fists. “Shut your lying mouth.”

            “They will kill him slow, take their pleasure in torturing the son of Éomund,” He cocked his head, a smile forming on his thin lips as he stepped even closer, now only a few yards away. “They will make him scream and beg…cut him, beat him, they will press hot steel to his flesh and watch it curl up and fry…” He chuckled at her pale face, trembling form as she whispered,

            “No.”

             “Théodred was strong, a good warrior; if he died what makes you think your brother will not?”  Her back touched something hard.  Éowyn clamped down on panic as she realized she’d stupidly backed into the wall. Gríma’s eyes lit up as he realized her position. Éowyn’s heart raced, her stomach roiling in revulsion as he came to within a step of her.  “Scream and he will kill me, yes,” His mouth twisted, “But he will die, too.” Gríma smiled, pleased when she made no sound as he stepped to within inches of her.  She was keenly aware of his foul presence, when he touched her cheek Éowyn choked on a moan, a weak noise of vulnerability and loathing. 

            His hand went to her breast, cupping it. Frozen, she trembled, repressing and biting her lip so hard it bled to keep from making a sound loud enough for her brother to investigate.  His lips touched her neck and nausea made her retch, her gut clenching.  Trapped, her mind begged her to scream, to cry at the top of her lungs for Éomer.  Théodred, I wish…inwardly she wept, grieving.  Théodred was more levelheaded; he would have held her brother back from killing Gríma and from being sent to death.  He would have banished this worm that dared touch her.

            Gríma chuckled, then grunted against her neck and Éowyn’s skin crawled—it was the unthinkable—he pressed against her and her eyes flew wide; he was hard, fully aroused, rubbing her through her gown, his knee going between her legs… No! For a second she was utterly paralyzed with shock and horror, then her teeth bared, and animalistic in her terror, Éowyn’s hands formed claws. Hissing, she struck out, scratching at Gríma’s face and eyes in her fury. He stumbled back, clutching his face in pain, red lines of blood streaming down his cheeks.   She looked at the wet, crimson stains on her fingertips, feeling viciously glad.  “I will make you mine.” He promised, snarling low in his throat. “Soon.”

            And if you do, they will find me with my throat cut, lying in the trash pile, like they found my poor dog, you bastard, she thought, clenching her bloody hands into fists, ready to strike if he came again.  It was something she knew without a doubt—one of Gríma’s men had murdered the puppy Éomer had given her as a watchdog.  It had been barely six months old when Hámahad found it, its throat jaggedly cut; limp and lifeless on the pile of refuse outside the hall.   I would not live to see morning if you covered me, Gríma Wormtongue; Éowyn’s heart grew cold and hard as this resolve took her. She watched him move away, his face twisted with anger but beaten for the moment and thought, no man will touch me, ever.

            Faramir’s hand held her arm tight, his body pressing against her, mouth hovering over her ear as he whispered, “Answer me, for the love of the Valar, please.”  His voice shook slightly and she felt wretched, opening her eyes.  I shrink from the harmless hobbits, and their childish intimacy… how will I stand his hands or his body on mine when he finally demands his right to me? It would be his just due as my husband when…oh, I cannot! Éowyn hardened her heart against his plea. 

            She raised her head and pulled back, holding herself very straight.  He let her go only keeping his grip on her arm, sliding it down to hold her hand.  His fingers laced with hers, his expression hopeful and earnest.  Inwardly she was warring; don’t, don’t, please, he’s good and safe and—oh, gods, how do I know that? She argued desperately with herself don’t make me… I love him. Then the cold part of her spoke, if you love him, you know he should have better than you.   She lowered her eyes, furiously forcing back tears. It was weak.  She could cry later, she’d have plenty of time alone.  He’s not like Gríma, he’s good, no, no, please, no…oh, gods, I have to.  When she spoke, looking at him and holding his gaze, her voice was formal, composed and absolute.  “No, Faramir, I don’t.  I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

            It was as though she’d sliced out his heart with her dagger and held it before his eyes, steaming, blood running in thick rivulets down her arm, the scarlet tissues still contracting as they died, and then smiled.  He actually stumbled back a step as though his legs would not support him, letting go of her, his hand falling to his side.  Faramir’s face was so wounded, Éowyn wanted to look away, but she held her gaze to him firmly, punishing herself.  This is what you have done and you will remember it. 

            He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away, and then Faramir stammered, “But…you…” He shook his head, obviously trying to speak, to comprehend, “Éowyn…”

           “I am sorry.” She tried to sound as coldly unfeeling as possible, trying to make it easier for him to accept it and move on. 

         “You said you did.” He whispered.  It came out almost childishly piteous and the more heartbreaking for it.  There were tears in his bewildered eyes; they shone, wide with betrayal. Éowyn dug her fingernails into her palms, relishing the pain that distracted her.  She would not weep; she would not break from her course.  

          “I made a mistake.” She held herself stiff, unmoving, a sharp contrast to Faramir’s sudden pacing.  He strode quickly, jerkily back and forth.  Abruptly he stopped and stood still, giving her a swift, distressingly probing glance.  His grey eyes locked onto her and Éowyn fought to keep steady under his scrutiny.  “I’ll just go…just leave you alone.” 

          “Say it again.” Faramir demanded, his voice cracking slightly.  “I want to hear it again.”

She was confused. “What?”

          “Say it.”

Finally, Éowyn understood.  Swallowing hard, she looked him in the eye. “I don’t love you.”

          “Did you ever?” She saw it in him, the terribly willing desire to make it right, whatever he’d done.  It was not you, Faramir.  Please, don’t make this harder.

          “I…I suppose.”

He frowned, his grey eyes warily searching hers. “But no longer?”

        “No.” Éowyn stressed it, trying to end this torture.  Her tight control slipped and she sighed, letting some of her sadness come out,  “I don’t love you, Faramir.”

        “What changed.”  It came from him as a thick growl, rumbling in his chest then rising from his throat.  It was a frightening, dangerous sound.  Suddenly he didn’t look so much miserable as enraged. 

She frowned, not understanding. “What?  I don’t…” This is wrong, Éowyn thought; she backed away as he walked slowly, deliberately towards her.  His face was almost compassionless, his grey eyes intense on hers.  Faramir’s gaze felt like pressure, hard against her, pinning her to her place.  She looked down at his good hand—it was clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles gleamed through the skin, pale bones easily visible.  Éowyn took another hasty step backwards, unease and panic rising in her little by little, tightening her chest, and cutting off her breath.    

           “When Éomer found us in the garden you said you loved me, you would marry no other man but me.” Faramir bit off the words harshly, as though they left a bad taste in his mouth.  He was frightening her.  “What changed, Éowyn.”

            “I…”

          “Don't lie!" He caught her upper arm, holding her tight again. When he spoke it confused her, “I can feel it.  You’re lying to me.”

Panic blossomed in her chest, rivaling with relief.  She’d been almost free…but hadn’t she wanted that?  She kept her voice calm with a huge effort. “No, I’m not.”

His eyes bore into hers and she jerked her arm, but he might as well have been made of stone. His voice was cold, hard, “Yes, yes you are.  I know you are.”

          “No, Faramir.” She just managed sincerity only to have it shaken out of her as he lost his temper.

Faramir shouted it in her face, clearly furious, “Tell me why you’re lying Éowyn!  Why you would toy with me like this?”

          “Please, no, no…” She whimpered, jerking, trying to free herself.  With a sound of irritation he pulled her to his body, forcing her against him, denying her escape.  Éowyn shuddered.  “Don’t…oh, don’t…”

He snarled, spitting out, “Don’t what? Let you go back to being what you were?”  His hand squeezed her arm painfully tight as he spoke.  “I remember her, cold and hard.  You stood on the walls of the city, a ice maiden, all hard edges and sharp planes.”

        “Stop it!”  She twisted futilely in his grasp. 

        “I thought I softened her, but I guess I was wrong.”  Pain moved across his features, quickly replaced by anger.  “How could you do such a thing? Toy with me like you did?” Faramir scowled at her, not letting go.

       “Stop…you’re hurting me, Faramir.” She whispered, tears burning in her eyes, blurring her vision. “You swore you wouldn’t.”

***

          Control, control yourself, he remembered with a shock.  She looked at him, trembling in his hand like some small, wild bird, heart beating fast, her blue eyes wide.  Éowyn’s mind, a chaotic mix of fear, dread and strangely, relief, pressed against his. She sobbed then, turning her face away in shame with an almost breaking sound of a woman not used to crying; that was all it took to fully cut through the haze of fury that had filled him.  The sheer misery in her voice brought him further under control.  “Yes, I lied.  Are you happy?” She no longer tried to pull away, but stood meekly, “Please let me go.  You’re hurting me.”

     “I’m…I’m sorry.” Faramir faltered, releasing her arm.  Bonelessly, she slumped to the ground, her head bent, her arms going around herself.  He was ashamed and horrified for having hurt her.  Already bruises were rising from where he’d grasped her flesh and Faramir took a deep breath, focusing on the slowly reddening light coming over the walls of the garden, trying to center himself.  Perhaps an hour had passed since Gandalf had left with the hobbits, yet it felt like an eternity.  He stared down at her golden head, miserable and confused. Faramir rubbed his face, trying to find his composure. 

          A few heartbeats later he decided he was calm enough and then went to one knee, crouching at Éowyn’s side.  Back under control, he asked gently, “Why did you lie to me?”  She didn’t answer, so he took a chance and touched her hair, running his palm over it.  To his surprise she immediately unfolded, rising to her knees, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her wet face to his neck.  Faramir curled his good arm around her.   “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  She didn’t answer; her breath came in short, warm bursts against his collarbone as she struggled for self-possession.  He cursed the lack of two hands as he held her to him, his left arm awkwardly about her waist as his right hand rubbed her back.  He moved it in soothing circles, projecting calmness the best he could.

         “Please forgive me.” She whispered.

        “Why would you lie?” Reliving the moment he’d realized still sparked anger.  Faramir forced it down with an effort.  He sat back, scooting a little way across the grass until his back met the end of the stone bench.  Faramir rested against it. Again, to his surprise, she followed, virtually curling in his lap, wrapping herself around him.  Their legs tangled and Faramir pushed her hair aside, kissing the nape of her neck. “Please tell me.  I love you.”

         “He said that.” And she shuddered all over. 

        “Who?” He could feel the revulsion coming off her in waves and felt his temper rise again, this time protectively channeled against this unfamiliar man. He despised him already, unseen and unknown. “Who, Éowyn?”  

        “Gríma Wormtongue.”  She spat it like a curse.  Her pent up rage, disgust and fear swept through him; it was unstoppable, as he sat pressed against her, his skin on hers.  The mixture of her emotions were so strong they made him want to vomit, and the shockingly clear thought he got from her stirred his anger to a vicious, white-hot wrath.  Pale, he licked greasy lips as he moved towards her… “Beautiful, so beautiful, mine…” Faramir tensed; he would kill this man Gríma. 

         “Who is he?”  What he really wished to ask was where is he, where is he so that I can cut him to bloody ribbons?  The way her emotions projected onto him was mildly frightening.  Faramir closed his eyes, seeking his heartbeat.  He’d lost control twice already today. 

        “He served Saruman.  He…he was a traitor to my uncle.  He’s gone now.” He could feel her relief and he let it wash through him, cooling his seething anger. 

         “Did he…did he touch you?”

She shivered and he held her tighter.  “He tried, often.”

Bastard. “I’m so sorry.”

          Suddenly she pulled herself up, her eyes fixing on his as though she were trying to make him understand, “I couldn’t do anything when he tried, I wanted to scream when he…Éomer would have killed him and then they would have” She bit her lip, crying again, “…he would have been put to death.  My brother, a murderer, a killer.” The last was a miserable whisper, punctuated by sobs. “He… would have been dead… and I would have been alone...all alone…forever.”

        “I understand.”  So this was the source of her fear.  Faramir hugged her to his chest, and thought about it.  She feared being touched because this Gríma had stalked her relentlessly; perhaps he had even tried to take her against her will.  Éowyn said something, low and pained. “What?”  Faramir bent slightly to better hear her as she murmured,

         “I lied because I wanted you to find someone that would not be afraid of you, who would make you happy.” She swallowed hard, her voice small and thick.  “I didn’t want you to love me, Faramir.” 

He stroked her hair. “Why?”

          There was no answer for a long time.  Faramir watched the sun sink beneath the walls of the garden, turning the light to shades of purple and indigo. If he looked over the edge, he would see the rest of the world still bright with orange light, yet overhead, tiny specks of stars began to show in the evening sky.  He sighed deeply, determined to wait her out. She was warm against his entire front; Faramir’s eyes followed the long lines of her legs, tangled with his, gown tight over her calves, then up her hip only vaguely outlined in the folds of her dress, the blue of it darkening in slowly dimming light.   Her fingers splayed on his chest, pale against the black of his tunic, but warmly alive on the silver tree’s outline; he gently stroked her hair, smoothing the rebellious, wavy strands, her cheek resting against his heart. Finally Éowyn spoke, “What do you want from me?”

Faramir answered without hesitation. “Whatever you want to give.”

She pushed herself away and he let her go.  Éowyn faced him, her eyes searching his suspiciously.  “Truly?”

          “Of course.” Now he was somewhat confused. “Why would I want more than you could give me?  Why would I push you?”  She muttered something and turned her head away.  Faramir frowned. “Is that why you didn’t want to love me? Because you thought I would…” He didn’t get it. “Would want more of you than you were willing?  I don’t understand that, Éowyn.”

            She smiled bitterly, sitting back on her heels.  He mourned the loss of her warmth and light weight against him. “Of course you don’t, you’re a man, and you’ve never felt what it’s like to be vulnerable, have you?  To realize that you’re all alone with people who are stronger and bigger than you and could force you to do anything they wished?”

            He sighed deeply. “I would never force you.”

            “You say that, yet how do I know?”

            “I don’t know.” Faramir snapped in frustration.  They’d come full circle to last night when he’d asked how he could prove she could trust him.  She looked equally frustrated.

            “Do you know what I did last night and today to decide to lie to you?” She suddenly inquired.

            “No, I was going to ask you, but then you broke my heart and I forgot.”

            Éowyn winced, looking down but continued, her fingers twisted a bit of her gown in her lap as she spoke, “I went to Merry. I ended up sleeping in his bed and the hobbits--”

           “Hobbits?” he raised an eyebrow.

            “Pippin joined us—I slept with them curled around me like kittens.” She smiled then made a face, “Then around noon I got kissed by Pippin and he looked down my shirt.”  Faramir laughed out loud. “It’s not funny.”

            He grinned, “Yes it is.”

            “Maybe to you, you have nothing to see.”

            Faramir sighed, and then asked, “So, how did that make you decide to come and tell me you didn’t love me?”

            “I…they’re harmless, Merry and Pippin.” Éowyn fidgeted, searching for the right words. “They couldn’t hurt me, yet, I flinched back from them and I thought, if I can’t handle a little hobbit, how could I ever…”

            He interrupted her, disturbed by the tears reforming in her eyes.  “It’s all right, I understand.”

            “Do you?” Éowyn sounded desperate.  Looking at her, he formed an idea. 

            “Come here.” Faramir pulled himself up to the bench and sat.  When she didn’t move, he patted the stone beside him, specifying his right side.  “Sit here.”

            “Why?”

            “You’ll see.”  Warily, Éowyn climbed to her feet, absently straightening her dress though it was wrinkled beyond saving.  She sat down a few inches away, looking suspicious.

           “Well?”

           “I’m not going to touch you anymore.” Faramir smiled a little at her confused expression.  “You’re going to touch me.”

          “Am I?” Although she looked only shocked, he gently, carefully touched her mind and was pleased to learn she was very, very slightly intrigued. 

         “Yes.” He held up his right hand.  “It’s hard to touch you with this one, since it’s right here at your side and,” Faramir grinned, “Éomer took care of my left, so it’s up to you.”

She looked uneasy. “I don’t know.”

          “What could it hurt?” He understood her hesitation. All of this rested upon his self-control, which had been fairly erratic so far.  He joked teasingly,  “I may be a great, powerful warrior, but I think you could overpower me fairly easily with this broken hand.” He smiled, “Give it a poke if you don’t believe me.” She still frowned, so he bumped her with his shoulder, “Come my love, don’t be afraid, if you don’t like it you don’t have to.”

Her curiosity got the better of her. “Where?” 

Faramir swallowed as she glanced up and down his body.  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.