“…and I saw her.” He smiled reverentially.  “She was like…like a dream, like the dream of a woman before there ever was one—utterly beautiful, so serene and compelling...” Aragorn’s expression turned awed, almost worshipping and Éomer clenched his jaw to keep from howling with laughter.  This is unbelievable. The man had been going on for at least ten minutes in this fashion.  There was a moment’s pause and a cool wind blew past, pushing clouds in the night sky and then he continued, “But…and yet she’s so delicate—just like a flower, slender and swaying in a summer’s breeze—” His tale was abruptly and rudely interrupted--Éomer could take no more.  He burst out laughing as Aragorn turned from contemplating the stars to frown at him.          

            Snickering, he asked, “Do you say things like that to her?”

            “Yes. Why?”  Éomer kept laughing, gasping for air, his chest hurting as Aragorn looked alternately puzzled and annoyed.  “What is so amusing?”
            “Nothing.   Nothing my friend.  Keep going,” He flapped a hand at the scowling King, “on about your perfect,” He sniggered, unable to help himself, “perfect elven woman.”

            “She is matchless.” Aragorn smiled dreamily and Éomer turned away to keep from laughing again.  His good intentions were all for naught as the King sighed and added, “In every way possible.” 

            This time he was on his back, breathing in slow, deep draughts and clutching his sides when he finally stopped laughing.  Weary, he smiled while Aragorn glowered at him and Éomer managed to sit up on one elbow and say, “You’re pathetic.”

            “Why?”

            “Listen to yourself—“like a flower, slender, and,”” He chuckled feebly, propping himself up with his palms, almost laughed out and then, grinning, quoted the rest in a high-pitched, mocking falsetto, “swaying in a summer’s breeze…matchless!  Ah, Arwen!”

            “I don’t say it like that.”  Aragorn frowned.

            “You might as well have.”

            “I did not.”

            Éomer snorted at the grumpy tone. “You practically did.” He grinned, then and said, “Admit it.”

            “No, I won’t.” He pitched a pebble over the wall. “Because I didn’t.”

            “You sound like a child.” A love-sick child, Éomer added, hugely amused.  “Go on.”

            “No.”

            Éomer laughed again.  “All right, all right.” 

            “Why aren’t you asleep, anyhow?”  Aragorn asked crossly.  “I thought that’s where you were going.”

            “No, I was going to see Éowyn, but,” he sighed, “I decided to go later and I heard you up here, swinging your feet.”  Before Aragorn could speak, he added, “Why are you in such a mood?”

            “I’m not—“ 

            So it’s going to be like this…well, not up here, he thought. “You know, Théodred did this sometimes, but,” Éomer began to stand, “he was courteous enough to do it in a tavern where I could drink and look at women if he got too moody.” He brushed at his clothes and commanded, “Get up, Aragorn.”

            “Why?”

            Éomer rolled his eyes to the sky and determinedly continued, “We’re going somewhere where you can get drunk.”  And not be this high up.

            Aragorn smiled and shook his head in annoyance. “I forgot how it was like in Rohan.” He chuckled as he gave in and swung his legs back over the wall, scooting back and standing.  Éomer felt his stomach plunge with vertigo just imagining getting to his feet that close to the edge.  Aragorn laughed again. “You know, if you and Faramir had gotten into that fight in a bar, you’d be best friends by now.”

            Affronted by the idea, Éomer stiffly growled, “I do not think so.”  Inwardly, he grimaced; you are a fool if you think that a few pints of ale would make him my friend.

            “Don’t lie; I remember what it was like now.”  Aragorn followed him back to where the barrel sat, sounding far more cheerful now that he was picking at Éomer.  “You’d already have married them and…” He chuckled again. “He’d be naming his son after you.” Éomer gave him a disgusted look then he carefully began to climb down, not wishing to fall and crack his head open upon the hard stones.  He’d just reached the street when Aragorn added, “Did you apologize to him?”
            “Yes.”  He stepped back while the King jumped off of the barrel.

            “That was kind of you.”  Aragorn paused then asked, obviously irritated. “So, where’s my damn apology, Éomer?”

***

            Faramir waited quietly while Éowyn thought of how to begin.  There was a strand of hair in her face that he wished to move, to tuck back, but didn’t.  He was rather afraid to. She bit her lip, staring at the wall and not seeing it.  He’d intentionally given her room, sitting down a short distance away from her; he told himself he was honoring his agreement to not touch her, but really his growing unease had prompted the gap. 

            He could hear her thoughts, especially the strong ones.  Théodred, no, well, really…oh, gods just tell it.  Irritation, anxiety, old shame…it poured off of her with increasing ease, making him fear.   Faramir didn’t understand it and he worried.  I don’t want to hear her thoughts.  Why can I?  He fretted that it would get worse if he touched her, skin to skin.  It was always easier that way.  Could she hear me? I don’t want to burden her. Yesterday this was impossible. Hastily, he tried to clear his mind.  It had never worked like this before; he’d always had to put out some effort to hear even the hobbits’ lively, unguarded thoughts.  

            “It was...” Éowyn rubbed her right wrist, frowning. “…six months ago, I think.”  She swallowed, looking down.  “He wasn’t supposed to be at Edoras.  He and Éomer had ridden out almost a week before.”  She glanced over at him. “They tried not to be gone at the same time, but sometimes they had to…of course, neither of them knew about Gríma—I…I didn’t dare tell.” He could feel the humiliation course through her at the mere mention of the man’s name.  It hurt; twisting his heart and Faramir started to reach out, but stopped himself with an effort.  If you touch her, it will be worse, he warned.  Éowyn continued, “They didn’t want me to be alone.” She smiled wanly. “It was two days after my birthday and Théodred rode all night to come and get me.  They’d gotten me something special.”

            When she didn’t speak, he asked, “What was it?”

            “Do you want to know what they said it was, or what they really got me?”  Éowyn laughed, a small sound.  

            “Both.”

            “Théodred…I put six stitches in his stomach—it wasn’t deep,” She shuddered, “but it needed them to keep it closed.  Anyhow, he and I rode back to meet with Éomer the next day.” Éowyn looked near tears, “There were men picking up orc corpses everywhere, piling them up.  Théodred turned to me and said, “You can throw the torch, little sister.  Happy birthday.”” 

            Faramir grimaced, feeling her grief. “That’s horrible.”

            “They constantly jested and neither of them could ever keep a straight face.” She smiled sadly, “Éomer always broke first and he did this time, too.  He was trying not to laugh while I just stood there, my mouth open.” He smiled. “Théodred got all apologetic and asked, “Don’t you like it?””  Of course I told him no and he paced around, pretending to think.  “I think she’s grown out of it, Éomer.  She doesn’t want to play with swords or spears any more.”” Éowyn swallowed, her voice weak, “He acted like nothing had happened.  I—I…he knew something was dreadfully wrong, that I was afraid enough to carry a knife, to strike at someone without hesitating.” She looked up suddenly, “I thought he would weep, he was so concerned when he asked me but,” Now she wrapped her arms around herself, and he saw a tear course down Éowyn’s cheek.  “I couldn’t tell him. He would tell Éomer and--” Faramir couldn’t keep himself from comforting her.

            “Shh.”  He slid nearer, putting his arm around her shoulder, still terribly careful not to touch her bare skin.  The closer contact alone heightened his sense of her mind, making him worry.  She was miserable with guilt and despair—it made his chest ache with pent up emotion. 

            “So, he said, “How about something pretty then?”” and called one of the men up to ride and pick me some flowers.” Éowyn laughed, pained.  “Éomer was still standing there, this big, silly grin on his face and I knew.  They knew I did, they were just—“ She went quiet.  Faramir planted a fleeting kiss on the top of her head, risking contact.  “So, they made me wait for a while longer, going back and forth, “I don’t know.” “She won’t like it.” Until I finally just screamed at them and Éomer reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a puppy.”

            Faramir smiled. “That’s a much better gift.”

            “Yes. They got it to watch over me and keep me company.”  Éowyn hesitated, and then finished her tale. “Théodred was strong—he broke my wrist trying to get me to drop my dagger and I was glad he did, otherwise I might have seriously cut him.  I was so afraid then, always imagining I could hear footsteps behind me…I did for real that time, but I didn’t think it was him.” She leaned against his shoulder and Faramir closed his eyes, trying to find some mental distance at least.  Elenya, Anarya, Isilya, Adulya, Menelya… “I thought it was Gríma, and I didn’t care anymore.  I remember thinking, let them call me a killer, let them hang me if they wish—just no more.”  Éowyn sighed. “So, he got closer and closer, then he grabbed my arm and I turned and tried to gut him and he took it from me.  That’s how I broke my wrist.”

            It was a terrible story.  I wish it had been Gríma, he thought firmly, viciously.  Then Faramir’s blood ran cold when Éowyn moved her arm and her skin touched his.  She answered his mental voice, saying softly, “So do I.”

***

            “What apology?  You knew there was a good possibility I would hit you when you grabbed me.”

            “Are you mad?” Aragorn stopped, glaring. “How would I know that?”
            Éomer halted as well.  This was ridiculous. “Everyone knows. Haven’t you ever been in a fight in a tavern before?”

            “No.”

            This was so completely astonishing that Éomer just stared. Finally, he asked, “Are you serious?”

            Aragorn looked wary. “Yes.”

            “How could you not have been in one?  Isn’t that what you did?  Skulk around inns?”

            “I didn’t skulk.  I was discreetly gathering information.”

            Éomer sighed and began walking again. “You said you hid under a cloak in the shadows.”

            “Now, I didn’t put it like that…”  Aragorn protested, following at his side.

             He continued, “You might as well have.  That’s skulking.”  He shook his head, unable to believe it. “Never?  Its impossible, I mean, you’re not very menacing…”

            “I’m not?”

            “No.”

            Éomer critically eyed the crushed velvet tunic, the silk and elaborate stitching in his shirt and Aragorn conceded the point, “Well, I was.”

            “They just thought you were a little mad, is all.” He chuckled.

            “They thought I was frightening.”

            “Who?”

            Aragorn was a bit vague, “People, lots of people in different towns.  They thought I was a ruffian.”

            He snickered, “I’m sure.”

            They walked in silence for a few minutes until the King burst out, “Éomer am I going to get an apology or what?”
            “No, but you are going to get something.”  This has potential to be the most entertaining night of my life, Éomer thought, grinning.

            “What?” Aragorn asked suspiciously.

            Éomer glanced at him, and said merrily, “The experience of getting thoroughly drunk, and then getting into a brawl.”

            “I can’t do that—I’m a King.  King’s don’t get into fights. It’s undignified.”

            He sighed, “Look, we’ll put you in one of your old Ranger cloaks and go down to the first level.  No one will know it’s you.”

            Aragorn was obviously refusing to consider this as a learning opportunity.  Éomer thought he was being gutless.  Come on, you’ve fought orcs and who knows what else.  “And you want me to get into a fight?”

            “Well, you can’t plan it or you’ll ruin it.”

            “Of course.”  It was sarcastic and Éomer grinned.  At least he’ll shut up and stop mooning over his woman, he thought, walking faster. 

***

            Faramir watched her play with his sleeve.  Éowyn’s fingers twisted it, and then smoothed it, over and over, touching his wrist; she hadn’t spoken for a while and he wondered if he should leave.  I don’t want to, he thought, his mental voice strong with desire.

            Éowyn shifted against him, moving her arm and he could feel her suddenly nervous, but gathering her courage. “You don’t have to.”  Again, I don’t like this he shivered, and then thought, What? 

            “You—you want me to stay?”

***

            Éowyn smiled at his hesitance, curling her legs up under her.  Her shoulder was warm where she leaned against him and it was nice and she didn’t want it to end. What will you do with him, though? She frowned.  He won’t do anything, you know it.  Do I? Yes. It was firm.  “Only if you promise to behave.”

            “I promise—“And as he said it, she took Faramir’s hand in hers and his voice was strange, as he said at the same time, words flowing together, “…to... Valar, why…behave… must she go…myself… when I’m just getting this far?...I…  It is…will… unfair,...do… terribly so…nothing, I swear.”

            Éowyn froze, her skin prickling all over.  “What did you say?” She whispered nervously.  He frowned at her. 

            This time, it was, No, no, I don’t believe...“I said, I promise to do nothing, I swear.”  Faramir paused, then looked at her more closely and asked, sounding gentle as ever, “What’s wrong?”

            She let go of his hand and stood, quickly backing away.  His gaze searched hers, and she waited but heard nothing. “No, the other.  First it was about the Valar, and then you said you didn’t believe something.” Faramir’s eyes widened and he looked away from her, staring at the floor.  “What...what was that?”

            He touched his right temple and then took his hand away.  He was obviously uneasy. “I don’t know—“

            “Yes you do.” She was certain, she’d seen the flash of panic in his grey eyes before he’d turned away.  There was a beat of silence. “Faramir.” Éowyn pleaded and reached out—but he immediately batted her hand away. 

            “Don’t!”

            She swallowed, hurt and frightened.  Faramir hadn’t acted like this before—almost as if he were guilty of something. “Why not?” She stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”

            When he finally spoke, it was slow, his voice dull, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to.”

            Éowyn felt cold.  Something wasn’t right at all.  “What are you talking about?  You’re frightening me.”

            “It’s a secret, an advantage, I suppose.” He gave a forced laugh, “It’s a nuisance, really. I can...” He hesitated, then, reluctant to finish.

            “What?”  When he hesitated again, still not meeting her gaze, she said tightly, “Tell me.” I trusted you, now you have to trust me.  Éowyn thought her heart would stop in her chest when he looked up and gave her a small, sad smile.

            “You did trust me, didn’t you?”