There were only sounds and sensations as it hit—the swish, swish of flying ice slamming through the dirt and grass all around him, the thuds as the hail struck the ground, his chin digging into the top of Éowyn’s head, making sure he shielded her, and then silence.  A final rumble of thunder and the day brightened again.  Éomer raised his head cautiously and heard the sound of boots.

              “Even in a skirt, cousin; she took you to the ground.”  The voice was known and on the verge of laughter.  Éomer rolled off of his sister, the freshly-bruised backside of his entire body complaining as he sat up, and he tried not to groan.  Thin streams of cold water ran down his collar and onto his skin, chilling him as he rocked back on his heels.  Éomer shook his head and bits of ice flew.  Grimacing, he rubbed his shoulders, trying to work out the dull pains and shivered as a cold breeze brought goose bumps to his arms.  He looked up at the sky, noticing with relief that the dark clouds had all but passed.  His clothes squelched and dripped as Éomer shifted, getting his legs under him so he could stand; after the hail there had been a, mercifully short, downpour and he was soaked all over.  Beside him, Éowyn sat up, rubbing her arm.  He glanced at her in concern, but she’d already taken an offered hand and was climbing to her feet. 

            “You two all right?”  The man to who the appendage belonged to grinned down at him and for a disturbing moment Éomer found him completely unfamiliar. 

Then he blinked, feeling foolish and wondered if a large chunk of the falling ice had caught him on the head.  Théodred, it was Théodred of course.  Who? It came from far away, in another place.  Cousin, friend, trusted brother, he answered and the voice did not reply.  Éomer rubbed his arm and said,

          “Yes, we are.”

To his annoyance, Théodred did not offer him a hand.  Instead, he was beaming at Éowyn and asking her, “You did it just like I taught you?”

            “Yes.” She smiled gleefully, laughing, and a part of him marveled She seems so happy, but before he could wonder it was gone.   Laboriously, Éomer got to his feet and began brushing off some of the mud that had splattered from the rain. Like him, his sister was soaked and dirty, but she ignored her messy appearance to snicker and ask Théodred, “You saw me, then?” 

             “You think I wouldn’t stay to watch you beat him, little sister?”

There was instant curiosity from inside him, but Éomer could find no reason for it.  Why should he be angered if Théodred called her little sister?  He was more an older brother than a cousin to them both.  The curiosity intensified, but he pushed it away.  Then, obeying a distant command, he turned in a small circle, gazing at his surroundings.  He stood in the center of a great ring of hard-packed dirt.   A short distance away stood several small buildings.  He named them in his mind—spare supplies shed and its lean-to, containing a few stalls. Lifting his eyes, he followed the line of a hill.   The incline rose and curved to Meduseld and he gazed at it in strange awe for several seconds before resuming his circle. The rest was either open fields (both paddocks and crops) or the houses of the people who lived in Edoras.  Inside the small, open shed he could see all the training weapons—dulled swords, spears, along with shields and old, broken saddles used on difficult horses.  In the lean-to’s stalls his sister’s bay, and his and Théodred’s geldings were nibbling hay, unconcerned about the brief squall and waiting for the ride to the schooling field.  The voice began to ask about them, but was interrupted.

            “Éomer!” Éowyn smacked his stomach to gain his attention, but luckily, not very hard and he dutifully turned to face her. She smirked as she extended his blunt training sword.  Grasping at it, he absently noticed Théodred was staring off to the side and Éomer began to follow his gaze until Éowyn poked him with the blade’s point.  He gave her a mock scowl as he jerked it away; inwardly he was quite delighted she’d knocked him to the ground.  Again, there was odd curiosity. 

         “What did you teach her? That was new.” He began to question Théodred, but his cousin wasn’t paying attention.  Instead, he was watching a rider come up the hill.  Éomer straightened, eyeing the approaching man as well.  He didn’t wear the clothes of a warrior, or a peasant, so Éomer turned to an easier way of identification-- his horse.  It was sweaty, lean and coarse, obviously hard-ridden and ill-bred—not the mount of a wealthy farmer or trader.  A man of little importance, he assumed, turning away.  He was just beginning to think about walking to the shed to get his cloak to dry his hair when the rider abruptly switched courses and trotted towards them.

           “Greetings my lords…and my lady.” He yanked the horse to a halt, pulling at the poor beast’s mouth. It shook its head, hooves scraping in the earth as it was wrenched to a stop and Éomer grimaced with distaste at the man’s poor horsemanship. The stranger looked at them in turn and Théodred nodded politely,

          “Greetings.”

Éomer allowed his cousin to speak, barely paying attention to the stranger.  Théodred was the elder and the heir.  In fact, he didn’t consider this his matter at all until,

         “Who are you?” Éowyn asked, as usual having no patience for etiquette, and all three men glanced at her.  The stranger’s gaze lingered and Éomer stiffened.  Soaked by the rain, Éowyn’s gown clung to her body.  She held herself erect and confident, not noticing the stranger’s attentions.  

          “Gríma.” He smiled down and asked with pleasure, “Who are you?”

         “Éowyn.” She gave him a scornful look for his sweet tone, but Éomer narrowed his eyes, glaring. Bastard, it came from far in the back of his mind, along with a surge of rage.  Fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword, he was just about to step forward when his cousin spoke,  

        “Pleased to meet you.”  It was polite, formal.  Théodred, as always, was impeccably mannered.  He gave Éomer a familiarly stern look; it was one that he could have read in the dark—stand down, it is my watch now, little brother. The voice spoke-- Explain, it was immediate and urgent, but Éomer did not understand the order.  “Here, Éowyn.” Théodred commanded. She turned from frowning sympathetically at the lathered gelding Gríma sat upon to gaze at him while he swiftly undid the clasp to his cloak and extended it to her.  When Éowyn just looked puzzled, he scolded, “You’ll catch a chill, put it on little sister.”

          “Indeed.” Gríma said, but his eyes were on Théodred as Éowyn wrapped the cloak over her shoulders. They were not friendly, Éomer noticed; but, instead silently fuming.  Éowyn playfully smacked at her cousin and Éomer relaxed slightly as Théodred fussed over her under pretense of worry she would catch cold, moving the cloak until it completely masked her blossoming young body.  Gríma spoke again, sounding as though he were forcing it, “We wouldn’t want that.” 

           “Not at all.” It was agreeable, but Théodred looked displeased.  “Do me a favor, Éowyn?” He asked and Éomer immediately calmed, understanding—he was getting her out of Grima’s presence and away from his all too obvious interest.  Calm? The voice asked; it sounded surprised, bemused. That’s something new.   

           “What?” She sounded suspicious. 

            “Come with me and watch the men practice at formations today?” Théodred grinned confidently as she smiled; it was a task he knew she enjoyed.  Éomer, ignoring Gríma, took his sister’s training sword and began to walk to the shed to return it to its place.  Why do you not fear? The voice asked promptly.  Théodred will watch her, he answered with assurance. 

           “Now?” His sister asked eagerly.

Théodred glanced at Gríma.  “Yes, I think now.”  Smiling, delighted, Éowyn whistled for Lýtling and the colt raised his head from his hay.  Hooves stepping lightly on the damp ground, ears pricked, he readily walked out the open door of his stall to his mistress and stood for her to mount.  Éomer halted to offer his cupped hands as a stirrup, and since she’d ridden side-saddle, she accepted.  Éowyn stepped into his hand and seated herself, yanking at the wet folds of her skirts to get them in place.  As she gathered the reins, Lýtling pawed, ready for her command.

            “Make sure they don’t slack!  Shout at them for me.” Éomer grinned as she murmured into the bay’s small, back turned ear and he enthusiastically stepped away, strides short and quick as he paced Théodred to the lean-to. While his cousin swung aboard his horse Éomer stood and watched the stranger watch his sister.  It angered him, the obvious hunger in his eyes.  He was used to stable boys and young servants gazing at her all moony-eyed and adoring, but they were harmless.   Gríma did not look harmless. 

           He opened his eyes, gasping.  For a moment he did not smell the familiar scent of earth, grass and horses and Faramir was disoriented.  Then the memory faded away and he now knew why Éomer had remembered it so vividly.  He straightened, his back creaking from leaning forward, braced against the wall and motionless for so long.  Still looking out over the city, he ruefully thought that re-living it raised more questions in his mind than the memory had answered.  Éomer had seemed so—relaxed and at ease then, even, Faramir thought, shaking his head in bafflement, with a stranger ogling at his sister.   It made for a strange comparison to the man he knew.  Faramir sighed, rubbing his face wearily.  His head was throbbing and he would have many occasions to think about this later.  When Éowyn is gone, he thought with a burst of depression, I’ll have plenty of time. 

           Turning, he looked back into the dining hall and was pleased to see that Éowyn was slowly walking toward him.  His depression faded and Faramir smiled. Her head was bent, inclined to listen to Merry speak as they walked and Faramir noticed when the hobbits took their leave she did not ruffle their curls like he might have been tempted to do.  Instead, Éowyn laid a hand on their shoulders, treating them as though they were men.  Perhaps that is why they love her so, Faramir thought.  He observed them walking at her side, instead of trotting as they often did with Aragorn or Gandalf.  It puzzled him until, smiling, he noticed the way she subtly shortened her strides to match theirs. 

             Halfway between him and the entrance to the dining hall, Éowyn stopped.  She spoke kindly, dropping to one knee.  The hobbits’ faces were solemn, saddened. Curious, he watched as she hugged them tightly.  Pippin’s darker curls pressed against her shoulder first and to Faramir’s surprise the hobbit went on tiptoe and kissed her cheek.  With a laugh, Éowyn playfully swatted at him and he jumped back.  His cousin was next and Merry hugged her with all his strength.  Éowyn pressed her chin to his temple, murmuring.  When the hobbit finally released her, he smirked and kissed her as well.  She pretended disgust, wiping her cheek and Merry laughed out loud.  Faramir glanced away self-consciously, then back again as Merry and Pippin bowed to her.  Éowyn smiled as she bid them goodnight.  While Faramir was still grinning at the hobbits’ impertinence, Merry suddenly glanced over at him, standing against the wall’s edge, silhouetted in the faint light, and he got the distinct impression that if the hobbit were a man he would have a fierce and determined rival.   There was a formidable glint in the Brandybuck’s eye and Faramir nodded to him respectfully. 

               “Sorry I kept you waiting.” Éowyn had come to within a few feet of him now.  She glanced out over the city, then back to his eyes, “What were you doing?”

            “Thinking.” He replied, automatically offering her his arm.  She smiled and took it.  Faramir began to walk, not knowing where they were going, but enjoying her warmth and presence against his side.  He was doubly happy when she leaned her head against his shoulder.  I could do this for a while, Faramir thought, this is nice.  He glanced down at her, matching his strides to hers. 

            A moment later she asked, “About what?”

            He wasn’t paying attention when he answered, “Éomer.” 

            Éowyn looked up. “Why?”

            Faramir hesitated, searching for an excuse. “Oh, I don’t know…”

            “Did he say something to you?” Now she sounded concerned and stopped to stare up at him.  “Do something?”

            He quickly reassured, “No, nothing.”

            Éowyn frowned at him, asking, “What happened to you, then?  You look pale.”

            “Tired, I suppose.” In reality he was.  Faramir’s head ached from repeatedly applying his gift.   He rubbed his forehead, grimacing slightly.  He’d done more today than in years and the unaccustomed use made his temples throb. 

          “Oh." Eowyn began walking again. "I won’t keep you late, then.” She said.  Does she sound sad? Disappointed? he wondered and almost hoped she did.  They walked in silence for a while, getting closer and closer to where his path and hers branched in different directions.   

            “I don’t mind,” He said and glanced down.  He didn’t want to say goodnight yet; just then inspiration hit and Faramir asked, “Can I walk you to your door?”

            Éowyn took a second to agree, her voice low, “All right.”  They turned toward her quarters at the hall’s fork and Faramir began to try and think up a way to stay for a while.  Suddenly, by accident, his broken hand brushed his leg.  Wincing at the small flare of pain, Faramir noticed his fingers had touched something in his pocket.  After a second of concentration, he remembered what it was he’d placed in there.  He glanced at Éowyn’s golden head, her cheek lying on his shoulder and thought, I hope she likes it.

***

            Éomer had had enough of Aragorn’s strange, melancholy mood.  It was damned irritating and he just wanted to sleep. He fought a yawn as he paced him through wide, dark streets. I have a long ride to start tomorrow, he thought, glaring sideways at Aragorn.  First the man had asked to speak with him, but then he’d barely said a word.  Next, Aragorn had bid him walk around the Citadel and Éomer had reluctantly agreed.  He had no idea what the man’s problem was and as the silence dragged, cared less and less. “Aragorn, what is it that you wanted?”  Éomer tried to be as tactful as possible, but it was difficult as they’d just passed the same broken statue for the third time.  He stared at it's carven face, wondering who it used to be and if the person had really been that unattractive. 

            The King shrugged, looking sad. “Company.”  He sighed.  “I’m losing two friends tomorrow, you know.”

            Oh gods. If he begins to blubber… “I know.”

            “It’s the beginning of the end.” It was a strange statement that made Éomer uneasy.  He stopped walking.  Aragorn halted as well, moving to the wall and placing his hands upon it.   He hesitated, wondering how late it was, then decided--he’s your friend, ask him.  Aragorn was looking out over the city when he questioned,

            “What are you talking about?”

            He seemed startled and embarrassed.  “Nothing, nothing.  Go on to your bed.” Aragorn summoned a smile. “Don’t let me keep you.”

            “All right.”  Éomer moved to go then stopped, “There is…there is nothing else you wish to discuss?” He cringed inwardly, but managed to ask anyway.  In Aragorn’s current mood there was no way of telling what he might say. 

            “No.  Go on.” The King stood gazing over the walls of the city, a glum expression on his face.  He didn’t speak again and Éomer shrugged. 

            “As you wish.  Goodnight.” With a small bow, he turned and walked away.  Navigating the dark halls, Éomer’s mind began to wander and specifically, down a familiar road—Éowyn.  Although she hadn’t spoken to him, his sister had touched his shoulder when she’d passed him at dinner and he couldn’t decide if he should try and speak with her tonight or wait.   She’s not a morning person, he smiled.  It might be better now.  Turning his steps toward her rooms, Eomer walked faster.  If he was lucky he could make this quick.