They reached her door all too soon for Faramir’s taste.  He stood quietly as Éowyn lifted her head from his shoulder, slipping her arm away from his grasp.  She gave him a small smile, her hands rubbing each other nervously.  She knows I want to come in, he thought.   He reached out to touch her mind, trying to determine the extent of her discomfort; he was relieved and puzzled to find it didn’t seem to be directed at him.  Wait—he blinked, how did I know that?  Yesterday I would have been lucky to feel her anxiety, much less so clearly or get a vague idea where it was aimed.  Uneasy now, Faramir waited for her to speak. 

            Finally, she took a breath and straightened.  “I…um,” Éowyn began. “Do—“

            Faramir decided to make it easy. He smiled gently at her. “Can I come in?”

            She seemed a bit startled at his directness, but quickly recovered.  “Uh, yes.  Yes.”  Éowyn opened the door, holding it for him to enter.  It was dark, so he stood in the doorway as she went in.  The servants had started a small fire, and she jabbed it with a poker.  Soon embers flared up, sparks flying, then a few flames rose, feebly flickering.  She stuck two candles into the orange flames, lighting their wicks and using them to light others.  Soon it was light enough to see a bit and Faramir gazed around her rooms in curiosity.

            Éowyn was neat, that was the first thing he noticed.  There were no clothes or miscellaneous things on the floor, nor any clutter anywhere; the only slightly off thing was a chair pulled near the wall, angled outward.  Taking a step to the right, he peeked into the cracked door of her bedroom—her bed was made and all the drawers were closed, with the top on her dresser clean of any objects.  Inwardly he smiled, imagining his own rooms and secretly feeling like a slob.   But, as Faramir moved his eyes, he frowned.  Both rooms were very visibly and almost purposely unadorned; there was nothing in them to say that Éowyn had been here for as long as she had.  He turned, carefully looking while she lit candles.  Even as the light improved, he could see nothing he’d expect in a woman’s rooms.  Not that I have any comparisons, he thought, but was still slightly troubled.  Finally, he alighted on two things—a hairbrush, and the faded, dried blue flowers she’d worn in her hair and on her wrist when they’d gone riding.  These things were sitting on her small sofa alongside the same two lumpy, dirty sacks he’d seen her toting in the street.  Merry’s gift, however, still woven into wreaths and obviously set down with care, was the only real personal effect and feminine touch in the entirety of her rooms.  He absently ran his fingers over the tiny bulge in his pocket, wondering if he should give it to her now, in the morning, or at all.  Perhaps she wouldn’t like it, he fretted, gazing at the room’s unsociable air.  Abruptly breaking his thoughts, Faramir noticed the slight pressure of her attention Wait, how? I can’t, that’s too delicate of a thing and turned.  Éowyn had fitted the candles into their holders and was looking at him.  Her blue eyes met his, and then quickly flicked away as she looked at her hands.  He was about to speak when she looked up again, seeming to gather herself and make up her mind.

            He returned her gaze and was mildly surprised when she walked forward, head shyly bent. She stopped, standing directly before him and Faramir was completely astonished when she stood on tiptoe, looking up, one hand going to the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her level.  Her eyes searched his as she bit her lip, then Éowyn kissed him lightly.  As she did so, her front pressed against his and Faramir automatically pulled her closer, his right arm going around her waist. 

            She stepped away immediately and her tone was playfully chiding, “I thought you weren’t going to.”

            “Not going to what?”

            Éowyn smirked. “Touch me.”

            “Oh, well…” Faramir hesitated.

            “Well?” She took another step backwards.

            He sensed no real anxiety. Perhaps a slight bit of nervousness, but overall she’s far more relaxed than last night, which is very, very nice.  Éowyn raised an eyebrow, waiting.  She was teasing him and, Faramir, warmly remembering her hand beneath his shirt, was willing to play a bit more of this game.  As long as it doesn’t go too far, he thought firmly, doubting that it would.  Despite her more demonstrative attitude, he didn’t think she would do anything too aggressive and still, he’d best be easy with her.  A slow smile spread over his lips as he replied, “I did say that, didn’t I?”

            “Yes.”  She took one step forward.  Another and she would be within his reach, if he were allowed to reach, that is.  “Will you keep to it?”

            “Yes.” His smile widened as he bowed, inclining his head. “I’m yours to command, my lady.”    

             Éowyn licked her lips, looking down and smiling as she thought. He waited, impatient and trying not to be.  Her tone was mischievous when she finally lifted her head and spoke, “Is that so?”  

             “Oh, yes.”

            “Well, then, this is your first command.”  She laughed then sobered with an effort.  “Faramir, I order you to…” Éowyn giggled suddenly, interrupting herself.

            “Now you’re frightening me.” He teased her by taking several steps back of his own.  Éowyn rolled her eyes at him and authoritatively crooked a finger.

            “Faramir, come.”

            He feigned insult. “Am I a dog?”

            “You could be.”  She raised an eyebrow as he purposely slowly, and reluctantly came to her. He dragged his feet, pasting a panicky expression on his face, trying not to laugh. Éowyn looked exasperated and annoyed, but he could tell she wasn’t.  This is fun, he thought, teasing her.  She smiled, “Perhaps you should be frightened.”  When he was only a pace away she stopped him and Faramir waited, excitement mentally warring with his desire not to do anything that might scare her away.  Éowyn looked him up and down and suddenly, her hand was on his side again, fingers flipping the fastenings on his tunic back and forth, playing with them. He turned his head to watch her slender hands move on the dark leather.  Éowyn tugged experimentally, twisting her fingers and one metal snap unfastened. Faramir swallowed, suddenly nervous.  She smirked.  “You know what I want you to do.”

***

            Éomer made it halfway there, rehearsing arguments and pleas in his head, before he remembered his promise.  Damn it, he swore, stopping in the dim hall.  Torches snapped and flickered all around him, their erratic light making shadows jump as he frowned.  Faramir, he’d promised him the night with her unbothered.  For a second Éomer was tempted, but then he shook his head; it would only annoy her further if he visited.  Ah, well, the silent stage never lasts too long, he reassured himself, turning back.  But yet…he hesitated, wondering how long Faramir might stay.  Still…it’s just that…it bothers me the worst and she knows it. There was a breeze and Éomer watched the shadows surge on the walls.  Later, perhaps?  He shifted his feet, trying to decide, a matter complicated by the fact that Éomer was not used to having to share his sister’s time with anyone.  Later.

            He retraced his steps back through the corridor and outside the Citadel.  Here, on the wide streets that were edged by the towering walls of the city themselves, he began to walk.  It was dark now, with only a thin, pale moon to light his path.  Carefully watching for breaks in the stones that might trip him, Éomer had just passed the place where he’d left Aragorn when he heard the small rattle and thuds of pebbles from above.  Freezing to listen, his well-honed senses of self-preservation kicked in and he gripped the hilt of his sword.  There was another tiny scrape and he took two quick, silent steps away from the buildings, keenly aware of the drop at his back, from which his only defense was a four foot stone barrier.   

            The origination of the noise seemed to be high above him, on the roof of the nearest building, its arch overhanging the city walls —it looked like a small shop of some kind, the door and shutters bolted for the night.  Éomer listened closely, confused by the now rhythmic soft pound of boots maybe against stone.  Someone was up there.  Taking his hand from Gúthwinë’s hilt, he noticed a barrel pulled up against the lowest part of the building.  If he stood on it, he could conceivably pull himself up to the roof.  Éomer listened to a few more seconds of someone swinging their feet and decided it was a good a way as any to kill time. 

***

            Éowyn walked backwards and sat on her sofa, carefully moving the little flower wreaths, then waited, eyes trained upwards at him.  She hid a smile behind her hand and Faramir felt ridiculously self-conscious as he began to unfasten his tunic.  After all, it would be only baring him from the waist up.  Still…the possibility of where his mind  could take this scenario made him edgy. “Stop staring at me like that.”

           “What’s the point if I don’t watch you?”

He could swear she was enjoying every second of this.  Exasperated, he asked, “Blink or something at least.”

            Éowyn giggled through her fingers. “I’m not staring that hard, Faramir.”

            “Could have fooled me,” He muttered, his hands stumbling on the fastenings. 

            “What?”

            “Nothing.”  Finally, he had it and he slipped out of it, tossing his tunic onto the chair.  Underneath, he wore a dark grey shirt.  “Happy?” Faramir asked her cheerfully, pretending ignorance.

            Éowyn leaned back, one hand on her stomach, the other held to her mouth, “That too.”  She stretched her legs, making herself comfortable.  Her eyes studied him closely, almost entertained by his nervousness and Faramir tried not to fidget.  It's not like she's stripping, he thought resentfully, and then had a moment of amused regret.  As he prepared to struggle out of his shirt using only his right hand, he remembered she’d mentioned something about his turn and he brightened.

            He wiggled out of his left sleeve, and then a beat later sighed heavily, hanging his head, “This is humiliating.”  Faramir was stuck.

            Éowyn snickered, and then gracefully pushed herself to her feet.  She charitably offered, “You want help?”

            “Uh…” He imagined her hands on his bare skin and stepped back. “I, I can manage.”

            “I doubt it.” Still, she stood, her arms folded and waited.  Faramir twisted, trying to use only his left thumb and pinky to pull the thick shirt off.  It was impossible and doubly so with her watching.  “How did you get it on, anyway?”

            “Very…” He ducked his head into the neck, “…carefully, I assure you.”  Another tug with his handicapped left hand and he was now truly stuck.  Faramir had no choice.  He sighed, and decided he could live through her standing close and warm with her hands on his bare chest long enough to get out of this shirt.  And afterwards…he refused to think about it.  “Help.”

             “What?  I couldn’t hear.”  Now she was just being cruel.

            He cleared his throat meaningfully. “Help me.”  Éowyn came closer.  He touched her mind, hoping to find out her intentions and was perplexed with what he felt—something completely new.  But before he could pursue this unfamiliar emotion, Faramir was distracted, jumping when her hands touched his stomach.  But, to his relief they slid up to grip the bottom of his shirt and did not linger on his skin.  “You—your hands are cold.” 

            “Sorry.” She murmured; and the tone of her voice was new, as well.  He puzzled over it as she straightened the sleeves at the top.   Éowyn swayed against him as she stood on tiptoe to pull it over his head; he could feel her hold her breath.  His nerves tingling, Faramir bent to aid her, still feeling utterly foolish.  A second later it was off, though and he shook the hair out of his eyes.  Éowyn folded the shirt and tossed it onto the chair to keep his tunic company. 

             But she didn’t move away and he shifted his weight nervously.  They were only inches apart and Faramir concentrated on the sound of the fire faintly crackling behind him and casting shadows on the walls, anything to avoid looking at her lips slightly parted or her eyes, soft and wondering.  He could tell she was getting ready to touch him.  Valar grant me restraint to survive this, he desperately prayed as Éowyn raised a hand.

***

            Éomer silently climbed up the roof, careful not to let the sheath of his sword clunk against the building.  At first he saw nothing, but then he turned his eyes to the part that overhung the drop.  Carefully staying far from the brink, he inched closer. There was indeed a figure—sitting and swinging his legs over the edge and over several hundred feet of empty space.  Éomer shuddered just thinking about it.  He stepped closer, feeling that the man’s silhouette looked vaguely familiar.  Just as he’d come three paces closer his boots scraped and the man turned his head sharply, obviously surprised.  Éomer blinked in the dim light and then scolded, “What are you doing up here, don’t you know you could fall?”  

            He smiled and relaxed, replying in an oddly melancholy voice, “I used to stand, you know.”

            Éomer got goose bumps just imagining. “Well, get away from the edge at least, you’re making me nervous.”

            “Nervous?” He chuckled, but it sounded forced.

            Éomer gritted his teeth and admitted from his position, a wary twelve feet from the sheer drop, “I do not enjoy heights.”

            Aragorn grinned, and swung his feet again, thumping his heels against the building. “Want to know how high it is?”

            “NO.” He shivered all over, eyeing the ridiculously tiny tile lip that would catch him if he slid towards the edge.

            “You sure?”

            “Yes, now get away before you fall.” Suddenly Éomer grinned to himself and his voice turned crafty, “Or, you could just jump and Éowyn and I could rule all the civilized lands.” He chuckled. “Yes, do that.” 

            Aragorn looked confused.  “Faramir would rule, he’s—“

            Éomer snorted in laughter. “I thought you had met my sister.”

            “That’s right, I did.”  He was silent, and then he looked up at Éomer in exasperation. He snapped, sounding uncharacteristically irritated, “Aren’t you going to sit at least?”

            Éomer refused. “Why are you up here, Aragorn?”

            He rested his elbows on his thighs, chin in his hands.  “I’m thinking.”

            “About what?”  Gods, what could you possibly think about up here?  Falling to your horrible, horrible death?

            “The miles between Minas Tirith and Imladris.”

            “What?” He frowned, confused. “What about them?”

            “Sit and I’ll tell you.”

            Éomer weighed his curiosity over the threat of certain demise. “No, tell me on the ground.”

            Aragorn sounded scornful. “Oh, just sit, would you?”

            “Fine.” Éomer carefully lowered himself, paranoid.  “Tell me why you’re up here, thinking about miles of all things.”  And tell me why you’re in such a damn mood, he added.

***

            Faramir shivered as she touched him.  Goose bumps instantly rose under her feather light caresses over his skin.  Starting at his collar, her fingers trailing in swirls, brushing his chest hair, and then hovering lower, lower…his breath hitched in his chest as she stroked his stomach.  Her palm was flat and warm as it moved and his control could take no more.  He rasped out, “Don’t. Éowyn, stop.” 

            She took her hand back quickly, as though startled, and her eyes were wide, “All right.”

            “It’s just—“ Faramir’s voice was strangely tight, even to him.  I barely sound like myself, he thought in astonishment.  “Just no more of that.” Please.

            She nodded, licking her lips and frowning.  “Want to put it back on?  You look…”  Éowyn trailed off, but she seemed slightly nervous, as she had when she’d felt how fast his heart had been racing.  Oh, but if you could hear it now my love, Faramir thought in uncontrolled, almost hysterical amusement. 

            “Yes, please.” Thank you.   Éowyn picked up his shirt, turning it back right side out and scrunched it up around the collar to make it easy.  She seemed familiar with this, so he asked, “How do you know to do that?” as she raised it over his head.

            “Do what?”

            She pulled down, careful not to catch on his face and Faramir put his arms in the sleeves as she stepped back.  “You knew how to do it so well.  I mean, bunch up the collar.”

            Éowyn seemed uneasy, as though she really didn’t want to tell him.  “Oh, I broke my wrist once. It's just easier.”

            “How did you do that?” Faramir pulled the shirt down; feeling much better covered and hoping her explorations were over or, at least, would be less intense.  He gazed at her and thought despairingly, I just want to hold you and you won’t let me.  Odd, you’re afraid when my arms are around you, but these other times…

            “Actually, I didn’t do it.” She hesitated. “Théodred did.”  Seeing his next question in his eyes, Éowyn added, “He didn’t mean to.  He--it was an accident.  He snuck up behind me.”

            “That doesn’t make sense.”

            She sighed, folding her arms and rocking on her heels, “I almost gutted him, but he grabbed my wrist instead.”

            Faramir put the mysterious cloth bags on the floor and gestured at her couch.  “Sit and tell me?”

            Éowyn frowned, and then sighed. “Fine.”