He waited, holding himself very still on the bench.  Éowyn bit her lip, thinking.  Suddenly she extended a hand, fingers hesitantly curved, and then stopped herself.  She frowned at him.  “Close your eyes, you’re staring at me and it’s making me nervous.” 

            “Sorry.” He shut his eyes obediently, leaving himself in a world of darkness.  There was a puff of gentle wind to stir his hair back from his brow, and with his sight taken Faramir felt much more vividly with the rest of his senses--the growing coolness as the sun sank, the smell of the shampoo she’d used as Éowyn bent closer.  He wanted to fidget but didn’t.  What is she doing? He wondered, waiting for her. He could hear her breathing softly, slowly, and feel the warmth of her side against his arm, but she wasn’t touching him. Curious, he reached out mentally and was surprised to sense that Éowyn was far more relaxed than he; Faramir’s fingers twitched as she kept him in suspense.  “Are…are you going to…” He asked.

            “Quiet.  I’m deciding.” There was a new, unfamiliar tone in her voice; he listened close--it sounded like a combination of amusement and wickedness, as though she were making him wait out of spite.  It made him edgy and Faramir had to concentrate to keep his eyes closed.   He gave a jolt when he felt her touch his cheek.  “Hold still.” Éowyn commanded firmly.  

             “You surprised me.” His voice was higher than usual as his pulse jumped in his throat.  The pads on the tips of her fingers brushed his cheekbone from the center of his face back, her thumb trailing just above his jaw line.  Faramir tried to remain motionless but it was difficult; her light touch tickled him.  There was a sudden pause as she took her hand away, and then she used both to tuck his hair back behind his ears.  

            “You need a comb.” She said as her fingers tangled briefly.  “Here’s a leaf, all snarled.” Éowyn murmured, running her fingers through his hair to get it to lie smooth. 

            “I tracked the hobbits for Gandalf through the--” Faramir attempted to explain, but he heard the amused, why was she amused? frown in her voice as she asked,

             “Did I say you could talk?  I thought I told you to be quiet.”  Is she scolding me?  He thought, astonished. 

               “Sorry.”

               “Shh.” It was a reprimand and she tapped her finger on his forehead.  Faramir closed his mouth and attempted to relax.  The muscles in his arms were jerking, jumping with the overwhelming need to reach out and touch her back as she playfully ran a finger down his nose.   Her fingers, then her thumb skirted his lips with gentle pressure.  He fought the desire to capture it in his mouth before it passed. Hold still; don’t frighten her away, he snapped at himself as she ran curved fingers under his jaw, doing both sides as though comparing them.  “He hit you here.” Éowyn said softly.  “And here.” Suddenly she pressed harder, directly on a bruise on his mouth.   His abused flesh throbbed, surprised. 

             “Ow.” Faramir pulled his head back, starting to open his eyes and she ordered, in an amazingly assertive tone considering the tearful girl she’d been a few minutes ago,

             “Eyes closed, Faramir!”

He grimaced, but did as he was told.  His face ached faintly where she’d pressed.  “Why’d you do that?  It hurt.”

Her answer was on the hostile side. “You deserved it.  Éomer was right to strike that time.” A beat.  Éowyn’s voice was heated now, “For what you said about me.”  Oh, that.  Damn.  He’d forgotten.

Faramir wished he could open his eyes to see hers and read how angry she was.  “Sorry, truly, I am.”  The last thing he wanted was another disagreement. 

She’d taken her hand away and his feet moved nervously.  Éowyn sniffed,  “Of course you are.” 

            “Well, what else can I say?”  Faramir turned his head to the side, wishing he could see her face.  He touched her mind, but found little there but gathering annoyance.  “I didn’t mean it.”

Éowyn shifted, her thigh brushing his. There was a long pause in which he felt her annoyance change into something he couldn’t identify.  Faramir waited.  At last, she said tentatively, “You did it to anger him, then?” He tried to put as much honesty and sincerity into his voice as possible as he answered.

           “Yes, I did.”  There were several more seconds of silence as she thought that over.  Finally, Eowyn’s fingers touched his chin and Faramir was relieved when she resumed her exploration. He relaxed as Éowyn rubbed his chin, her fingers scraping in the short stubble.

             “You haven’t shaved today.”

            “No.”  She traced down his neck, thumb catching his Adam’s apple as he swallowed self-consciously. She paused at his collar, careful not to put pressure on the still dark bruises around his throat,

          “You should have stopped when Aragorn pulled him back.” Her tone changed from gently chiding to sadness, “I’m sorry he hurt you.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but then Faramir clamped it shut and his knuckles whitened on his right hand around the edge of the bench as she nonchalantly passed a hand down his chest, her palm flat against the dark, richly tanned leather.  Eowyn’s fingers traced the silver and white threads on the front.  She placed her fingertips on the high points of the branches, pressing firmly as she slid them down the trunk to his midsection. He gulped, trying not to move, ridiculously conscious that he was more nervous than she was.  Éowyn commanded,  “Tell me about the tree you wear.”

          “T-the tree?” Faramir’s mind was a blank.  Oh, the white tree. Idiot, pay attention. “It’s a honored reminder of lost Númenor and the white tree Nimloth.” 

         “The stars?” Éowyn tapped them one by one, yet her other hand was sliding up and down the weather worn leather, caressing it and his chest beneath.  Faramir was finding it increasingly difficult to think. 

         “A symbol of…” One of her slender hands had moved to his side, “of the Sickle of the Valar and—“ He jumped again as she undid one of the fastenings.  “W-What are you doing?”

        “It’s handsome on you.” She gave a small laugh and almost before he knew it, she took her hand from his side to pull his neck down.  To his absolute shock, Éowyn kissed him.  It was the first time she’d initiated any form of intimate contact and he was almost too astonished to enjoy it.  Easy, no sudden moves, Faramir thought, cautioning himself.  His heart pounded, but he allowed her to kiss him and made no objections when she stopped.  It was over quickly, though, and Éowyn asked, her voice as composed as though people surrounded them, “Why do you have it instead of something else?”

His own voice was a bit tighter.  “Uh, I…I don’t know—What are you doing?”  Faramir turned his head towards her as she kept slowly unfastening his tunic, fumbling at first.  He twisted away, nervous about these new actions and where they might lead, but she gripped the leather.  Her fingers pinching his arm in punishment, Éowyn said firmly,

              “Hold still.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she growled at him, “Eyes closed.  No peeking.”  Faramir frowned and Éowyn asked, her voice perfectly calm, almost conversational as she let go of his arm, “And what?”

            “And…what?”  It took enough time for her to undo nearly all of the fasteners and pull open the side of his tunic for him to remember. “Yes, right, uh, the stars represent the Sickle of the Valar and…to remember the downfall of Morgoth.”  He reached out to her mind and found her relaxed, even enjoying herself.  What happened? Faramir wondered in confusion.  What changed her from a few minutes ago, a girl shrinking away from me to—this woman with her hand slipping between my clothes?

It was indeed; Éowyn had opened his outer tunic enough to put her hand beneath it. Her palm was cool from the outside air as it slid up  his bare stomach.  Faramir’s chest expanded with his quick intake of breath. “Your people think about those old tales very much don’t they?”  She’d moved much closer now.  Her lips almost touching his, she spoke again, “Answer me.”

              Faramir touched her mind and found it, again, strangely unperturbed; amusement, yes, even enjoyment but no fear. What happened? “Yes.” He choked it, trying desperately not to move or to open his eyes as she kissed the corner of his mouth.  Her fingers spread as they moved upward and if Éowyn noticed the way his skin contracted beneath her small, cool hand she didn’t speak.  “This is torture.” Faramir groaned as she pulled away as soon as he turned his head to meet her lips.  Her mouth hovered over his without fully kissing him, and he groaned, “You hate me, don’t you?”

She smiled; he could hear it in her voice as her hand rested over his heart.  She tugged gently at a strand of his chest hair, curling it around her index finger. “No.” Curiously, he heard her snicker, and then she asked, “Is it as dark as the hair on your head?”

What? Faramir was incredulous.  “Yes, I suppose.  I don’t know.” 

Éowyn asked with another girlish giggle,  “Can I see it?”

            “Not yet.” A jolt of excitement ran through him and Faramir suppressed it viciously.  Digging his nails into the stone, he hesitantly asked, “Can I…can I touc—“

             “No.” It was stern now.  Éowyn was still smiling, though, as she murmured, “I like this.”

            “Cruel. You’re cruel.” Faramir asserted weakly, trying again to catch her mouth.  Unable to see, he failed and she laughed again.  Her palm, warming against his chest, moved and Éowyn fell abruptly silent.  He could feel her fingers quiver, but then she held her hand still. 

            “Your heart’s beating very fast.” Was that the slightest bit of shyness in her voice? Surely, not now, Faramir thought.

             “Is,” He swallowed; he’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice how tightly wound-up he was, “Is it?”

            “Yes.” Éowyn had moved away, an insignificant distance, but to his heightened senses it felt like miles. Cool air moved to chill his side where she’d been confidently leaning, warming it.  He reached out to her mind and felt the first tendrils of unease return to her thoughts.  Faramir gritted his teeth in frustration.  What did she expect?  Did she not know what she was doing to him?  Perhaps not, he realized suddenly; she has little experience in men and none of it pleasant.    

            “Don’t be afraid.” Faramir whispered.  His good hand gripped the stone edge of the bench, the rough surface scraping his palm as he struggled to keep himself from reaching out. 

            “I’m not.” Her voice was fearless, yet her mind wasn’t.  He could feel it doubly so with her hand pressed against his bare skin. A moment later Éowyn betrayed her nervousness, asking,  “You won’t touch me?”

It was hard for him to say it and mean it, “No. I won’t.” 

She didn’t speak for a few minutes.  Instead, she moved her hand across his chest, back and forth as though measuring it.  Her dragging fingers threatened to drive him insane. “You’re thin.” Éowyn murmured; he could hear the frown in her voice.

           “Am I?”  He smiled at the concern. 

           “Yes, I can feel muscle, but,” Her fingers poked his sides.  It tickled and he chuckled. “Ribs, too.”  Then there was a sudden intake of breath as though she’d thought of something.  Éowyn withdrew her hand from his shirt.  She laughed again, an absolutely impish giggle, then her voice firmed as she commanded, “Take it off.”

Faramir was appalled. “No!”

            “Do it.”  He could feel her body shake with her laughter.  “Come, come, I want to see.”

It was time to end this, Faramir knew.  He opened his eyes, momentarily startled at how dark it had become.  There were many stars now; the sun had gone down beyond the walls. He stared at her as Éowyn pouted. Ignoring temptation, he said loudly and firmly, “NO.”

           “Fine.” She stood abruptly and smiled. “Now you don’t get a turn.”

What? He got a turn? Since when? Faramir blinked. His fingers, which had been refastening his tunic with the ease of long practice, froze. “Wait, I’ll do it.”

She giggled again. “Too late.” Éowyn held out her hand. “Come, Frodo and Sam walked by a moment ago.  It’s time for the evening meal.”

***

            As usual, he didn’t sit by her, but again, as usual Faramir often looked down the table at Éowyn. The food barely held his attention and Aragorn, sitting beside him, was silent.  Several places down, Éomer returned his gaze more than once, obviously noting the direction his eyes were going.  He wasn’t sitting beside her, either, and looked displeased.  Éowyn was placed rather far down between a surly looking Merry and a weary faced Pippin; at first she’d folded her arms and gazed at them very sternly, but now she laughed as they spoke.  The hobbits were loud, their sentences overlapping, vying each other for her attention.  Faramir, alone, was jealous.  He stabbed his fork into a bit of meat and ate it sullenly. 

             She’d released him once they’d entered the hall, letting go of his hand and leading the way.  There had been a high-pitched shout and then, confusingly, Faramir had been immediately latched onto by two hobbits.  Jerked to a stop, he looked down. Merry and Pippin had grabbed him by the legs.  They gave him angelic gazes.  “Hello Father.” Merry said sweetly. 

Pippin, not quite able to keep a straight face, snickered, then added, “We missed you so.”

Éowyn snorted at his side, amused, “So he’s whom you picked?”

            “’Course.” Pippin said. The hobbit frowned, and then asked, “Why, did you want someone else?”

            “No, he’ll do.” She laughed and gazed at Faramir in wry amusement. “Enjoy them, they are the only children you’ll have.”

            “What are you talking about?” Faramir was confused. She raised an expectant eyebrow at the two hobbits clinging to his legs.

          “Well?”  When they just grinned and didn’t answer, Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

Faramir asked quickly as the hobbits let him go and she started to move off, “Will I see you afterwards?”

Éowyn pretended to think about it. “Yes, I guess you may.”  Faramir smiled, delighted.  Then, boldly, he grasped her wrist when she turned. 

          “No kiss goodbye?” He gently teased, stepping closer.  Faramir touched her mind, but felt no disquiet.  She made no objection, the corners of her mouth curling up in a very small smile.  Faramir took this as encouragement, so he bent and--

         “Oh gross!”

         “Ughhaaahh!” Merry and Pippin made retching sounds, holding their stomachs and staggering comically.  His lips almost on hers, Faramir abruptly straightened, self-conscious; the hobbits were watching, and he couldn’t kiss her with them commenting like that.  Éowyn giggled as he glowered at them.  Pippin stuck out his tongue as Faramir, irritated, snapped out, “Stop that!”

          “Make me!” It was an instant and childish reply that confused him.  Éowyn touched his arm and Faramir looked down at her.  She smiled up at him. 

To his surprise she said sharply, glaring down at the hobbits, “Children!” and pointed to the open door.  “Go!”

Merry grimaced. “Yes, Mother.” It was sarcastic, but they went and Faramir got his kiss. 

***

             And now he waited out in the hall for her, eagerly shifting on the balls of his feet.  Éomer, moving by in Aragorn’s wake, stared at him in obvious suspicion.  Refusing to be baited, Faramir nodded, inclining his head in a friendly fashion and was pleased when the man grudgingly did the same.  At least we’re to that now, he thought ruefully.  Which is good, as she loves him so.  Faramir sighed, turning back to the door.  Inside, he could see the servants clearing off all the tables but where the four hobbits, Éowyn and Gimli were sitting. They spoke, laughing as he paced, impatient.  Servants carried off dirty dishes and began to wipe the tabletops.  He watched the candlelight shine off her golden hair and jealously coveted the burst of laughter Merry got from her. 

              Turning away, Faramir was distracted.  The sight of Éomer had started him thinking about the memory he’d unwittingly experienced again.  Another glance into the dining hall showed Éowyn hadn’t moved, so he leaned against the ledge overlooking the city.  From where he stood Faramir could see almost all of Minas Tirith.  Light from torches flickered like little orange stars and there were thin streams of grey smoke rising from cooking fires all over the city.  Resting his arms on the white stone, he focused his eyes on the horizon, clearing his mind.  Only darker black against the night, the city was an island of life and light in the world.  Staring into nothing, the sounds behind him faded away and Faramir’s eyelids lowered as he tried to remember.  A second later it hit him like an arrow through the chest and Faramir clutched his head as Éomer’s inner voice reverberated through him, shockingly loud—“Gods, the storm!” Looking over her shoulder, he missed the strike, only hearing the cry of triumph in her voice and the ring of metal, then the thumping vibration as his sword hit the ground a moment before he did.  “Éowyn,” He'd begun to say, to warn, but she’d knocked him off his feet just as easily as she’d knocked the sword from his hand and it came from him as a whoosh of air as he fell, grunting as he hit the hard-packed earth. She wasn’t paying attention, instead, crowing her victory.   The clouds, thunderheads, were almost black now, billowing.  Their grey undersides swept forward and Éomer was afraid, but not for himself.   Her foot planted itself on his chest and he heard the crack of lightning.  Éomer thought, it’s coming…