Éomer shoved open the door; it was heavy and creaked on its rusty, grimed hinges, announcing their arrival to the most secluded ale house he could find in the City.  He was grinning as he entered, shooting an enormously entertained glance back at Aragorn.  Cloaked and hooded in anonymously dull and mud-stained clothes, the man looked nothing whatsoever like a King.  There was a crowd of men—all ages, some in uniform, some not.  Éomer noticed a sudden dispersal as he walked further inside; to his amusementand irritation I said dawn, did they not listen? a few young Rohirrim quickly downed the last of their ales and slunk out the door, not meeting his gaze. 

            “Come on.” He moved to a far corner table, Aragorn silently trailing him.  Grabbing a chair, he turned it around to sit, folding his arms over the back.  Aragorn slumped across from him, his long legs stretched out carelessly.  Éomer tried not to laugh, thinking he was overdoing it a bit, and then with a shout and a gesture he attracted the attention of a barmaid. She’s not bad looking at all, he thought, perking up slightly as the woman pushed her way through the heavily occupied tavern carrying a tray with two mugs gently sloshing.  Foam splattered the already filthy floor as he glanced at the dark, shadowed face across from him.  “Are you going to talk at least?”

            “Yes.”  It was gruff and he tried not to laugh again.

            “Good.”  An ample brunette in a low cut red dress, the woman set the mugs down in front of them, sparing both men a curious look. Aragorn ignored her, of course, staring at the scarred, stained tabletop.  Don’t pay attention to him, love, he’s no use, Éomer thought; he gave her a winning smile, over here, lovely.  That’s it.  He smiled again as she gingerly eyed him.  Come now, I can’t look that bad.  But, to his dismay, with an arched eyebrow and a contemptuous toss of her skirt, she left them alone.  Damn it.

            “What the hell’s taking them so long?” Aragorn growled suddenly.  “He’s doing it on purpose, you know.”

            “Who? What?” He was still watching her disappear into the dimness; regretfully Éomer turned back to the man opposite him.

            “Them.  Arwen. Elrond.” Aragorn glared into his mug.  “I’m king.  I’ve fulfilled my part.  I want her here.”

            “Oh.”  Again, damn it.  No woman to keep him engaged and Aragorn was still talking about his darling elves.  At least there’s something to drink, Éomer thought.  He lifted his mug and took a long swallow.  It was very strong and fairly tolerable.  Aragorn can’t talk about her forever, can he? 

***

            He’d put his head in his hands, mumbling something she couldn’t quite hear.  Éowyn asked again, this time less forcefully, “Tell me, Faramir, please?”

            He heaved a sigh. “It’s hard to explain.”  Faramir raised his head; he looked tired and rather ashamed. 

            Cautiously, she moved forward, her hands clasped in front of her, still very much keeping in mind his swatting her away a few minutes ago.  “I’ll try to understand.”

            “I can—“ He frowned, stopping to say,  “I won’t hit you again. It was just, I…” Faramir grimaced, his voice frustrated, “I don’t want to burden you.”

            “Burden me with what?” How did he know I was thinking of that?  She was increasingly nervous but trying not to be.

            “I—believe me when I say I can’t help it and I don’t know why.  It was never, never this strong before.” Faramir looked away from her, and said, his tone sincere and yet somehow bruised sounding; “I can read your thoughts, your emotions…even memories.” He glanced at her before finishing, “Everything, I think, if I wanted to—which I don’t, of course.”

            It took her an eternally long second to reply.  Éowyn felt frozen, her mind unable to grasp his words. “What did you say?”

            Faramir leaned back on the small sofa, not looking at her. “It’s true, I’m sorry.”

            Éowyn tried to comprehend but failed again. “Is this…a jest of some kind?”

            “No.” He gave a short, harsh laugh.  “I would not jest about such a thing.”

            Her hands clenched each other painfully tight. My thoughts, my emotions…gods, even my memories…“You can..."

            “You’re hurting yourself.” Faramir sat up abruptly, looking concerned. Éowyn shivered and closed her eyes tightly as an icy chill went down her spine, coiling itself like a serpent in her abdomen. My thoughts, my emotions, my memories…andwhat occurred to her next was inevitable and utterly monstrous. Gríma could have only trespassed upon my body, but—“Don’t think that!” Faramir’s voice was sharp, pained.

            Éowyn sounded far away to herself, dim and foggy as she opened her eyes and gazed at him. “Think what?”

 He seemed to be trying to get through to her, speaking carefully and forcefully. “I would never do such a thing.”

            You are a fool, Faramir. He flinched, as she slowly answered, “Haven’t you already?”

            “I told you, I cannot help—Éowyn?” 

            Faramir sounded alarmed, which she supposed, he should be.  Weak spots: bridge of nose, eyes, throat, broken hand, stomach, groin, knees…it was running through her mind as she took another step backwards. Gríma could have only trespassed upon my body, only raped my flesh, even if he killed me he could have never touched who I was inside…I am defenseless. Completely without a shield.  “Please stop, Éowyn. Don’t…don’t think that, please.”  He was trying not to horrify her further and failing.   

            Then, the unthinkable occurred to her and Éowyn felt her rage and humiliation balling up hot and heavy inside her chest.  It was an effort not to scream, to spring at him, her hands distorted into claws.  Oh, gods, what if…“Have you been doing it the entire time?”

            Faramir looked honestly sickened. “No.”  Then, to her outrage, he blanched and muttered, “Well…”

            I let him…I even almost began to want him to…“Is that how you got me to trust you, to allow you to—“she shuddered, repulsed and appalled, “kiss me, touch me…” Éowyn straightened then.  The shame was too much to bear.  Wretched and entirely unable to stop the tears that burned and began to fall hot on her cheeks, she spat at him in tones of venomous hatred, “You made me care about you, didn’t you, you bastard?”

            “No, no I didn’t—I can’t do that.”

            She noted his expression—it was one of admirably sincere looking distress. Perhaps…NO!  I will not be a fool’s toy, least of all yours, you son of a bitch. Curse you!  “It’s all been lies, hasn’t it?” She laughed then, her throat tight with the sobs that she refused to loose in front of him.  And to think, I was almost rid of him. “All lies.  Tell me, what did you want—me as a prize in your bed?  Or was fooling me simply a pleasant diversion from your duties?”

            “No. Please…” Faramir stood then and she backed further.She was roughly eight feet away at this point.  He’s a warrior, watch him.  Gods, what am I doing? It doesn’t matter, Éowyn thought in despair; there’s nowhere to hide, is there? He frowned, obviously disconcerted, “Just, will you just listen?”

            She laughed again, a high, taut sound. “I think not.  That time is over, Faramir.”

            He took a slow, deliberate step in her direction.  Éowyn tensed and he stopped. “It’s all right, I know you’re angry—“

Her hands snapped into fists. “Of course you do.”

            “Just calm down and listen, listen to me.” Faramir held up his hand, holding her eyes. “Just a few minutes, I promise.”

            She hesitated, wanting very much to believe all he’d said and yet…what else don’t I know?  What does he know about me? I wanted to love you, you bastard. “You may speak, but quickly.” Éowyn’s throat tightened with humiliation and fury. “Tell me your excuses.”

***

            “I know it’s far…but, still, I should have had some word by now.  Something.  She always sends me a letter if she knows where I am and that it’s safe.  She knows, Éomer and nothing.”  Aragorn’s ale sloshed over the rim of his cup, foaming light brown onto the tabletop as he slammed it to the chipped wood.  Éomer blinked, waste of drink, you fool. Suddenly processing what he’d just heard, he wondered, whom does she address it to?  The dirty, rascally-looking man lurking in the corner?  Éomer snorted laughter and then, because Aragorn was a friend, he tried to think of some reply to the man’s half-furious, half-miserable and lovesick jabbering; a reply that did not involve poking fun at him, “Perhaps—“

            “Do not give me excuses!” Aragorn glowered at him for a moment.  Éomer took another drink, completely undaunted by his glare.  The King sighed deeply and wailed into his still almost full mug, “I just miss her so terribly.”

            Oh, gods… “Yes, with the—the perfect…ness and all.”  Éomer was trying not to titter hysterically as his head finally began to buzz.  He took another deep draught, draining his mug.  Dismayed, he glanced at Aragorn, but he didn’t seem to notice when he raised his hand and shouted for another. Trying for the last drops, he mumbled past the cracked rim,  “Drink, drink.  You’ll forget about all that.”

            “I don’t want to forget. Ever.” The King replied peevishly.  Éomer was barely listening, instead peering through the shifting mass of people to find their maid.  Ah, there she is.  He gave her a slow, purposely inviting smile as she approached.  But, again, he was rebuffed as, using excessive force that caused the foam floating at the top of his mug to splash into his lap, she put down his new drink.  Disdainfully, the brunette snapped,

“’Ere you go.”  Come now, why so cold, my lovely? It’s naught but a broken nose and a few bruises Éomer thought, glancing down at his wet clothes.  Drips of ale splattered onto the floor when he shifted and he grimaced.

             “Thank you.” He said politely, still not yet accepting defeat in this encounter.  Narrowing her eyes, she flounced away in a swirl of ample bosom and skirts, clearly uninterested.  He frowned in consternation as he moved on the chair, trying to get comfortable in his damp trousers.  Perhaps not this one, he mused. Then, as he was looking around the tavern for any other good-looking women, Éomer abruptly noticed Aragorn was still talking and had been for quite some time,

            “…and the entire situation’s—Are you listening?”

            “Yes.” He smiled and picked up his mug. Éomer took a long drink before adding, “In fact, I agree with you.”
            Aragorn looked pleased and then his face fell. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

            “Not a damn word.” He snickered gleefully.  “Drink you idiot, you can’t enjoy a fight if you’re sober.”

            “I told you, I’m not fighting anyone.” Aragorn protested, but drank obediently anyhow.

            Éomer grinned.  “We’ll see about that.” He gestured to the room. “Plenty to pick from.”

***

“I’m sorry I can’t help it and...I’m sorry you feel this way, but…” Faramir paced a few steps, searching for words. “I’m not…I wouldn’t…” He sighed and stopped, facing her. 

            “Go on.” Her voice was as dead and dull as the rest of her; the fires of her fury had banked into chill ashes.  Cold tears now threatened, but she managed to keep them at bay.  It didn’t matter what he said.  Nothing particularly matters, does it?  She moved his tunic and sat on the chair, holding it in her lap.  Éowyn smoothed her hands over the cool leather, feeling the raised stars and the intertwining branches of the White Tree.  She remembered tracing them in the garden, amazed to see how he caught his breath and feeling a strange new sense of power; it was something she’d never dreamed existed.  Her hands tightened on the weatherworn leather and she looked up at him, thinking I’m sure you can hear this and I hope it hurts you to know how you make me feel.  Faramir winced and she smiled wanly at her victory. 

            He looked away, then very abruptly back at her.  Éowyn gazed up at him as Faramir’s eyes turned slightly inward.  Their grey depths darkened, turning turbulent and suddenly she felt an odd touch of some kind, feather-light and all but unnoticeable…he was inside her… as he said softly, “Very vulnerable…afraid, too… sorrow, anger; but you want to believe me…” His grey eyes refocused on hers. “It does.”

            Éowyn’s voice was high, tinny in her closed throat.  I felt him, I felt him…“Don’t do that, please.”

            “You’re trembling.” Faramir frowned.  As she shut her eyes, he came to kneel at her feet.  His hand hovered over hers (she felt the warmth) and then withdrew.  “If I touch you it will be worse. I won’t be able to control it at all.” Then he hesitated and added, almost surprised, “At least, I think.”

            Damn you, she thought as one tear escaped her restraint. If you’d just… “That’s how you knew, wasn’t it?”  Éowyn looked at him, kneeling before her, “How you knew I lied?”

            His expression contained more than sorrow; there was also the slightest trace of anger. “Yes.”

            There was no question of trying that again.  She still loved him. And why?  I want to hate you, she thought.  You make me feel defenseless and utterly naked, just when I felt safe at your side at last.  “Faramir?”

            The anger had gone. “Yes?”

            “I’m still sorry I lied, but I think I’m more sorry now that you didn’t believe it.” Éowyn stood and held out his tunic.

***

Faramir sighed inwardly as Éowyn said, “Leave me.  Now.”

            She did warn me there would be some taming involved, he thought ruefully. And, yet, he was not ready to give up.  There was one more thing to try.  If I have the courage.  “I will leave if you wish.” Faramir moved as if to reach for his tunic, but instead he captured her wrist and her eyes went wide as it he felt his mind flow through her.