“There’s nothing I can do.” Aragorn sighed. “I know that, I know, but…I just want to do something.”  Éomer stared at him.  “You know?”

            “No.” He snickered, but Aragorn paid him no attention, instead swirling his ale.

            “I know I shouldn’t…I’m being selfish, I mean, Elrond’s leaving and she isn’t—because of me— and,” He grimaced, “And, I’m being selfish. Aren’t I?” Éomer blinked, thinking that Aragorn had started to make less and less actual sense as the night progressed.  It’s an improvement, though. Makes him more interesting. 

            “I don’t know.” He tried not to laugh imagining what the next hour would sound like. “Go on.”

            At this stage, Aragorn needed very little prompting. “So, like I was saying,” He frowned, looking slightly puzzled and Éomer grinned in delight as he continued, “I was saying…what was I saying, Éomer?”

            “I don’t know.” He chuckled at the King’s irritated expression. Then, getting an idea and deciding to mess with him, he added, “You’ve been speaking elvish.”

            “I have?” Aragorn was almost comically startled and nearly dropped his drink.  Éomer hid his burst of laughter in his mug.  Swallowing, he stared at Aragorn over the rim and with an effort he made his voice sincere.

“Aye.”

            “Oh, sorry.”  He frowned.

            “It’s all right, you’ve,” He snickered, “you’re having a tough time.”

            Aragorn was actually looking very contrite and Éomer was having a difficult time of it himself trying not to laugh hysterically.  Warm all over from the ale, he smothered a grin as Aragorn seriously said, “I’ll try not to do it again.”

            “Good.” He pasted on a sober, understanding expression. “Go on, my friend. Get it out. I’m listening.”

***

            “It’s all right.” Faramir whispered it over and over; Éowyn’s eyes were wide, her pulse fluttering as her breathing came faster and faster and he could feel her disorientation and panic as he opened to her.  Don’t fear Éowyn. It was surprisingly easy and curiously simple, once he’d done it, to hold himself back and give her free rein; it was as though he’d been waiting his whole life to do this—Faramir pulled her to his front and she swayed against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder.  He released her wrist, instead wrapping his arms around her waist, sensing how close she was to collapse.  Trying not to bend too much of his attention on her, he murmured softly into her ear, “Don’t be afraid, I will not harm you.”

            She trembled in his arms.  Faramir gazed down at her in empathy; he knew how she felt, of course, far better than ever—all night she’d been in control, with his promises not to touch her and his eyes closed and now he’d taken that from her quite suddenly. I’m sorry, but I could not leave, I won’t let you get rid of me. He directed it to her, knowing she could hear him.

There was no answer, but after a moment, Éowyn’s hands crept up his back, fingers and palms pressing against his shoulder blades as he held her.  She shivered again, her nose burying into his collar and then whispered, “Who is that man?”

            “What did you see?” Faramir asked the top of her head, shifting his feet, spreading them for better balance as he held her up.  Éowyn, though not any heavy weight, was still swaying and barely keeping her feet; overwhelmed, he assumed. 

            “A tall man, he…he looks at you—and your brother.” She looked up, with her eyes half-lidded and muttered, in a voice that came as much from within her as without. “You, you were playing chess. You were winning—never played, never, but…” Éowyn frowned, “Boromir knew how to, so you knew how to.”

            “That was my father.” Faramir remembered that day with pain.  It had been easy to know when to move and where on the unfamiliar board; his brother’s mind had told him everything he’d needed.    

            “He looked at you, when he knew, he—your brother couldn’t but you could.  He knew and he looked at you…” She swallowed, her arms hugging him tighter. “Like a snake that must be quickly killed.”

            “Shh, it was long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”  There was a moment of silence before she spoke again; in it he could feel her warming his front, swaying against him.  Faramir took a better grip on her waist, not wanting to drop her.

             In a strangely vague voice, she murmured, “It always matters. You were a puny child; small, thin and pale,” She smiled faintly, “You had freckles on your nose and little stick arms and no front teeth.”

            Faramir laughed in surprise. “I don’t remember having little stick arms, but the teeth?  I told you the kite story. I knocked them out and had to wait until they grew back.”

            When Éowyn next spoke, she sounded afraid. “I can see you; you were alone in the dark, alone because it hurt...too many people…” She was shaking, her voice coming faster and faster, “they were all thinking at once, all together, couldn’t block them…”

            “Shh.” Faramir hugged her tighter with his left arm, using his right hand to lift her chin.  “Look at me, focus on me.”

            She blinked, tears in her eyes, confused, “What?”

            “It doesn’t matter…”

            “It does, it does,” Éowyn swallowed, her voice tight and miserable, “He made you forget how, forget...so strong, so strong, you don’t know, but I do and…” She trailed off, moaning slightly and her eyes shut as she went limp, almost slithering out of his grasp.  Surprised, Faramir barely caught her in time.  For a second his own balance was in jeopardy, and then he lifted her.  It was an awkward effort with one hand, but he managed and carried her into the bedroom to lay her on the bed. 

***

            “And so, I was in Lorién and—it’s very enchanting there, you know, with the elves and the trees—and,” Aragorn took the mug out of the brunette’s hand, paying her no mind.  Éomer gave her a friendly smile.  So far he’d been rebuffed four times, but the night was still young.  She ignored him again. “And, Arwen tells me, me!” Aragorn threw his hands out for emphasis and Éomer laughed. He won’t need me to start a brawl if he keeps doing that. It’s gotten crowded in here. He’s gonna hit someone.  “That my poetry is awful! Can you imagine that?”

            “In general or just about her?”

“About her.” Aragorn frowned, “Can you imagine?”

Eomer chuckled, “No, I can’t. I’ve never actually written poetry.”

            Aragorn looked about as horrified as Éomer had felt when he’d revealed he’d never been in a fight in a tavern. The King’s mouth hung open, as he parroted, “Never written poetry?”

            “I’ve sung a few times for a woman. But poems? No.” Eomer looked at him in disgust. “How hard could that be anyway?”

            “Very! But, but, women like that—they do! All of them.”

            Éomer chuckled into his mug, resting his arms across the back of his chair and leaning forward to leer at Aragorn. “Not the women I know.”
            “Harlots.” He said it as though it were disgusting, curling his lips and shaking his head in pity.

            “Now, don’t assume that. Some of them actually weren’t.” Éomer chuckled again. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like your woman liked it.”

            “Years I write it for her…I spent a lot of time on it and, and she just one day—“Estel, it’s awful!””

            Éomer giggled. “Let’s hear it, then.” He was snickering uncontrollably as he added; “I’ll tell you if it’s any good.”

            Aragorn choked on his swallow of ale. “No!”

            Suddenly he caught up with some thought, “Wait, did she call you Estel? That’s a woman’s name if I ever heard one.”

            “It means hope.”

            “Hope of what? That when they meet you, you will be a man?” He sniggered at Aragorn’s irritated expression.

            It was stubborn and furious. “No.”

            His head buzzing pleasantly, Éomer leaned back and howled with laughter. “I think it is...the—the,” He was almost laughing too hard to continue, “damn elves just never told you.”

            “Hope! It means hope!” Aragorn pounded the table in outrage, making the empty mugs rattle loudly.

            “They laughed at you behind your back, I know they did. Imagine—it’s the greatest jest of all time—the High King,” Eomer could barely breathe now, “of Gondor, named after a woman!”

            “Hope, dammit! It means hope!”

            Suddenly he sobered, “I think I’ve made love to a woman named Estel.” At the expression that crossed Aragorn’s face, Éomer lost it completely and guffawed, uttering great, deep and stomach hurting belly laughs. Gods, I think he’s going to kill me.

***

            Her eyes opened and she stirred, highly conscious of his presence. I never knew I was so alone…Éowyn gasped, still shocked at the sense of veiled, tightly controlled force so close but unused.  Faramir was everything, he was the world, and suddenly she could see it much, much better.  I was deaf and blind… She could feel him all through her, filling her, pressing against her.  It was both strangely pleasant and terrifying to know his thoughts…his anxiety, super-controlled passion, gentler love, and even his anger from when she’d tried to reject him… all this was perceivable, completely bright.  He shone like a star, brilliant against the wailing and unknown blackness that had surrounded her before. I was alone, but now I am not…This knowledge made her feel secure, not completely, but more so.

            Now he hovered over her, sitting on the edge of her bed.  His grey eyes shone with worry and it pricked at her as though she’d stuck out her hand in a driving rain—it was silver and firmly hitting her skin in driving torrents.  He’s so heavy, she thought; he’s so strong, I can feel him—like the sun in summer, beating down…

            What, my love? Is it too much?

            It was a surprise, to hear him speak without moving his mouth, his words seeming to originate from her. “No.” She licked dry lips, “No.”

              Good.  He answered.

            You’re very loud. Éowyn sighed, it was becoming hard to pay attention to him since he was everywhere—past, present and small, barely seen bits she knew were the future.  It looks quite acceptable really she smiled and gazed up at his grey eyes. They were worried again. 

            “What does that mean?” Faramir frowned at her, holding her hand.  His thumb caressed the top of it and she was briefly lost in the sensation of both stroking and being stroked.

“It means…oh, it means…”

Suddenly he spoke loudly, shaking her shoulder. “Éowyn?”

            What? She opened her eyes again (when had she shut them?).  She’d been far away, following him as a gawky teen through a brown and snowy wood, his steps soft on the damp ground.  Silent, his hands light on his bow, arrow loose and waiting between his fingers…he was hunting deer.  No one else could find them and the winter was harsh, but they bedded down in this glade, he’d seen them here, perhaps if he could prove he was good at something, then…

“Éowyn!” There was a burst of panic that pressed her hard.  He was so strong--and you don’t even know it. “Tell me what’s happening, Éowyn.” Awkward with only his right hand, he sat beside her, touching her face.  His hand was detached, carefully impersonal—yet it felt good and strange to feel from both his skin and hers and she was saddened when he took it away.

Don’t stop.

All right.  He was quieter now, restraining himself and seemed startled and pleased to hear her so clearly. 

It’s nice. Faramir stroked her face, his fingers gently curving over her cheek, over and over from her brow to her chin; it felt good, but still he worried.  Suddenly he was talking.  Éowyn tried to follow the words, but it was too hard when she was racing Boromir, running through the streets, lungs burning, feet pounding, laughing…

Éowyn? Talk to me. Focus on me, Éowyn.

She frowned under the silvery panging of his anxiety.  You worry too much.

  Perhaps I worry for a reason.  You’re frightening me.  Try to pay attention.

            She opened her eyes, wondering again when she’d closed them. Your dream, it’s very nice, but I don’t want so many children.

            Faramir gave a small laugh. I’ll try not to make that many.

She smiled and carefully picked up his broken hand.  Cradling it gently, she laid it on her stomach. It was healing well, she could tell. The color of his pain was a bright, pulsing orange, but she didn’t see it; there was only the silvery pinging and prickling of his worry. “Good.”

***

            Eomer howled, his amusement fed by Aragorn’s sour glare.  The King finally spat at him, “Stop it, Eomer.” I don’t think I can.  He snickered helplessly, shoulders shaking, his broken nose throbbing. “It’s not funny!” Aragorn whined loudly.

            He managed to gasp out, “Yes, yes it is”, only to see the man glower.

            “They don’t make fun of me!”

            Eomer snorted and gave him a look, “Please, how could they not,” He paused and added with a chortle, “Estel?”

            “They don’t!  Elves are civilized!” He gave him a disgusted look, “Unlike you.”

            “You don’t think I’m civilized, Estel? Why not, Estel?”

            “Stop calling me that!”

            “See, you’re ashamed because it’s a woman’s name.” He snickered as the man rolled his eyes, blowing loudly through his nose in frustration.  Just like a horse. 

            “I’m not! It’s not! Its—you’re damn annoying.” Aragorn drained his mug in one lengthy swallow and bellowed for another.

            Now we’re getting somewhere, Eomer thought, pleased.

***

            My love? Answer me.

“What?” It was wearisome to speak, to return. Easier to float in his memories, his mind—Faramir was steadfast, loyal and good, how had she ever doubted him?  Foolish, I was foolish.  He wants me, us to be happy. 

His worry pricked her and annoyed her so she had to open her eyes.  Faramir was biting his lower lip, his brow creased.  My, he’s handsome, she thought and laughed inwardly. “You said nothing for a long time.”

            “Sorry, it’s hard…” She sighed and shifted her legs, “hard to pay attention.”  He frowned at her and Éowyn wished to pull him down, to press herself up against him and feel how differently their hearts beat.  It seems so slow…ah, he wouldn’t let me.  She laughed inwardly again.  We are both cowards.

            Faramir’s brow furrowed as he tried to keep up with her inner and outer voices. “No, we’re not.”

            “No?  You’re afraid of my fear.” She sat up, focusing and, with an effort, pulled herself away from the deepest parts of his mind. Distanced and more lucid, Éowyn challenged, “And I’m afraid of what you might do.”  He frowned. Leaning forward, she touched his face and smiled. “Man of honor, right? My prince?”

            “Yes.”  She could feel him wondering how much she could see, hear in him.  Éowyn gathered to her what little courage she had, taking comfort in the low, constant touch of his love for her and spoke, 

            “Then take off your boots.” Faramir glanced down, obviously confused. She laughed; it was easier to think with the mental distance. “I don’t want them in my bed.”

            What?

            She shoved his stomach, pushing him back and swung her legs over his. Her feet on the floor, Éowyn said, “You heard me.”

            She smiled as she let him read her mind.  Faramir’s brow creased, “I don’t think—“

            I do.  Come, don’t pretend you don’t want to. Do you wish to leave? 

            “No, but I—“ His voice trailed off, uncertain.

Though part of her still quailed, she was firm as she added You’re keeping your clothes, idiot.

That was a relief for him. Fine, if this is what you want.  He bent and began unlacing his boots.  As she stood, he looked back up to her. Are you sure?

He was kind and she smiled, touched. Yes, you won’t hurt me.

I can’t be sure of that. She stopped from moving to her dresser, turning to face him.  His mind was full of her brother.  

What?

Nothing, it is nothing.

It is not nothing.

Faramir looked guilty. I didn’t mean to, but I read him earlier.

Torn between protectiveness towards her brother, and curiosity, she asked, What did you see?

You.

Éowyn frowned at his increased guilt.  Why do you feel like that?

He hurts already and it is my fault.

            She had no reply, only her own sadness.

***

            Éomer blinked blearily and surveyed the empty mugs crowding his and Aragorn’s table.  Not enough yet, he thought.  Most were his anyway; however, the drinking had gone a bit faster in the last ten minutes—Aragorn was childishly ignoring him after he’d ended six sentences straight with “Estel”.  Éomer chuckled, as the King, with his hood flipped back over to hide his face, packed and lit his long pipe.  Embers glowed redly and the sweet smell of pipe-smoke floated up around them.  Aragorn inhaled, and then, eyeing him blew the smoke into his face; Éomer coughed, thinking That’s going to get you noticed, fool.  “Don’t do that.”

            “What? You don’t like it?  Isn’t it terrible when someone keeps doing something you don’t like?” Aragorn inhaled again then blew another draught into his face.  Éomer glowered at him. Child. 

            “Quit it.”

            “No.”

            Éomer waved his hand through the curling smoke. “Stop it, Estel.”

            Impressively loud, Aragorn exploded, “Stop calling me that!”

             “Stop blowing smoke in my face!”

            “Fine!”

            They sat in ill-humored silence.  After a few seconds, Éomer drank deeply, barely tasting the ale now.  Across from him and still brooding, Aragorn puffed his pipe, and then drained his mug.  He shouted for another without turning, his voice gruff and Éomer perked up.  The amply proportioned brunette was coming their way.  Hello, darling. 

            “More, sirs?”

            “Aye.” I’d like more than just ale. He stared at her curves mournfully.

            “Yes.” Aragorn snapped and gestured impatiently to the clutter of mugs.  “Clear this, will you?”

            The woman replied between clenched teeth, but managed to keep her tone civil. “Yes, sir.”

                 “What’s wrong with you?” Éomer asked the moment she’d left.  “What, a woman has to be an elf for you to be polite to her?” He shook his head, “You know, I may despise Faramir, but I would have abhorred you. Utterly, utterly hated your very existence.” Éomer chuckled, “I owe your woman a debt.  What does she like?”

            “You’re not giving her anything.” It was a growl, but he pressed on.

            Jealous? “Gold, silver, jewels?” He chuckled, “Not poetry. Maybe a good ballad or two?”

            “Forget it.” Aragorn frowned, swirling his new ale.  The foam splashed onto his hands and he licked it off.  “Why would you hated me—why would you have hated me more?”

            “Easy.” Éomer held up one hand, fingers closed. He put one up as he went, pointing at Aragorn for emphasis. “One, I know he’s got a gentleman’s education—Faramir is no wild ruffian; two, he’s supposedly a good warrior and three, I did not find him in my lands, springing out of the grass like a jackrabbit from a hole.”

            “I have a gentleman’s—“

            “Aye, I bet you do, but who would I ask?  The elves?”

            “You asked about him?” Aragorn seemed amused.

            “’Course.”

            “You’re not very trusting.”

            “No and now you can see why I owe Arwen such a debt.” Éomer grinned, leaning forward, “So, what would your woman like?”

            “Nothing from you.” It sounded suspicious and defensive. 

            “Well, I suppose anything would be better than your verses.”

            Aragorn made a face. “They weren’t that bad!”

            “Then let’s hear them.”

            “No!”

            If he tells, I don’t know what to do…laugh or cry? Probably I’ll just laugh until I cry.  “Come, if they were good, you’d tell me.”

            Aragorn shifted uneasily in his chair, fingers playing with the stem of his pipe. “Well—no, not here.”

            “Why not?” Éomer shook his head in disgust. “No one’s listening.”

            “No.”

            “Coward.”  He grinned, “Share, Estel.”

            “Fine.” Aragorn leaned forward, his voice lowering as he spoke.  Unfortunately, it was quickly drowned out by Éomer’s giggles.

***

Faramir tossed his boots under the chair in her front room.  He picked up his tunic and placed it on the seat, stalling as she undressed...part of him was still in her bedroom and he could see her, feel her like he was looking through a fog and it was terribly distracting. His eyes closed and he could see through hers—her hand picking the nightgown, slipping it over her head, material falling silky against her bare skin and moving to the mirror, untying the leather thong that held back her hair and looking for her brush…

Faramir?

Jumping and feeling oddly guilty, he looked at the door. Strange, they were in separate rooms, yet the link between them remained strong. Yes?

Bring my brush, will you?

All right.  It lay on the floor near her sofa.  Picking it up, he opened her door, absurdly thinking he should knock and froze in the doorway.  I know she’s dressed—aye, but by the Valar it’s not much is it?  The white nightgown hugged to her body at the breast and hip, falling in soft folds down her legs.  It hung well past her calves, essentially covering her and yet, as he came closer, drawn inexorably, the candlelight showed right through it.  He absently handed her the brush, unable to look away from the silhouette, his hands suddenly itching for a piece of charcoal, a pencil, anything with which to draw. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She gave him an amused smile as though she were perfectly at ease and then began to tug the brush through her thick hair.  You look like you’ve never seen a woman in a nightgown before.

Faramir gazed at her, entranced and noting that for all her nonchalant tones, she was still slightly shy. If I have, I can’t remember any longer.

Éowyn glanced sideways at him, I don’t believe that.  She struggled to smooth her hair, pulling at it in frustration. Damn stuff, I hate it.

It’s beautiful. Appalled at her attitude, he murmured, “I love it…it’s gold,” He touched the strands as he named the colors, “Gold, flaxen, straw, wheat, fawn, look, it’s tawny here and here it’s almost bronze, shading all the way to pale cream.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, looking skeptical.  You like it so much, you brush it then.

He blinked in surprise, and then took the brush from her.  Éowyn sat on the edge of her bed; hands in her lap, waiting for him.  Her head was bent and she licked her lips as he moved to stand behind her.  Feeling her nervousness, Faramir hesitated then began gently stroking her hair with the bristles.  It would be complicated with one hand—yet, he wanted to very much.

 Éowyn smiled, relaxing a bit. You’ll have to press down harder than that.

All right.  It was as difficult as he had expected, trying to hold her hair down with his left wrist and brushing with his right hand.  But as he took his time, Éowyn did not complain and Faramir began to enjoy watching the tangled and snarled strands smooth under his minstrations.  Her hair shone in the candlelight and he found even more colors—honey, butter yellow and the paler yellows of corn silk, the light cream of rice, a few almost red strands, and another that reminded him of the rare pelts traders sometimes brought from Harad—a deep tawny, lion-color.  It fit her.  My lioness, he thought in amusement.

What’s a lioness? She was curious, turning her head.

Be still. He gently admonished and Éowyn turned back.

A very fierce and beautiful creature,” He smiled, “a great female cat, bigger than a dog, but smaller than a horse.  They are feared for their skills as warriors and hunters. One can easily take down a man or an ox.  In Harad they hunt them and sometimes they sell the skins here.” He parted her hair down the middle, choosing one side to concentrate on. “If you like, I’ll get you one to see.”

I haven’t felt particularly fierce lately.

He smiled again, brushing carefully.  No?  Then I fear to see it.

You shouldn’t.  You’re no sport at all—you won’t fight back.

Éowyn’s hair was fanned out over her shoulders, flowing and untangled and he was only stroking it out of enjoyment when she finally asked, “Are you almost done?”

“Yes. I’m done.”  Faramir placed the brush on her dresser and looked about her room, noticing again the lack of personal items. It bothered him and he absently touched his pocket. Where is everything?  

What do you mean?  She touched her hair as though checking it. 

There’s nothing here.  No women’s things—ribbons, rouge, powders, jewelry...

Why would I have those? He felt a mix of disgust and amusement.

Faramir frowned; his only answer was well, you’re a woman.

It earned him an immediately irritated response. “And that means I should be like every other woman?” 

“No, I just—“

She cut him off defensively, “You don’t expect me to be like,” She gestured back towards the door, indicating the rest of the city, “Like those women do you?”

“No.” Then, because it was true, he added, “I wouldn’t want you to, I think.”  I like my lioness, my wild shieldmaiden far better. And, deeper, he thought, she thinks nothing of being a Steward’s wife—what I could buy her, riches, regard and people’s admiration…no, I prefer my wild woman of the North who fears my touch and loves me for other things.

“Then why do you ask?” She was clearly aggravated, unable to hear his deeper thoughts now that she’d pulled herself away.

Slightly hurt, Faramir said quietly, “I was just curious, that’s all.”

Éowyn folded her arms and there was a moment of silence between them before she spoke, “Sorry.” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, glancing at him when he asked,

“Why are you mad?”

“It is nothing.” She stood and pointed at the bed while picking up the candleholder.  The small flame flickered with her delicate breath as she murmured, “Get in.”

Will you tell me why I angered you?

She sighed. Yes.

***

“Stop laughing at me.”

“She—she,” He snickered into his hand, trying to muffle it without success, “she was right.”

Aragorn glowered at him, his head down on his folded arms. “Éomer quit it.”

He snorted laughter, remembering the last verse. “It’s terrible.”

“Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have told you!” Aragorn sighed. “She’s very difficult to describe.”

Cackling madly, he continued, “How hard could it be?  Actually, I could improve it if you want—let’s see raven rhymes with what?”

“No, be quiet!”

“Raven, raven…haven, cave in…” He burst out laughing. “I don’t think it rhymes with anything remotely good.” This struck him as the funniest of all and Éomer laughed so hard his ribs ached while Aragorn glared murderously at him.

“I hate you.”

“You’re going to miss me, you know it.”

 It was childishly petulant. “No, ‘won’t.”

“Will.” Éomer snickered and peered into his empty mug.  Once again the tabletop was strewn with them, many more tipped over this time than last. “We need more. Make yourself useful.”  Laboriously raising his head, Aragorn managed to give a small shout. Éomer frowned, “That was pathetic.”

He mumbled into his hand, “Do it yourself, then.”

“Hi! Hey! More!” Across the less-crowded room, the brunette looked up.  She did not appear pleased to have him bellowing for her and Éomer sighed.  What does she want me to do?  Wait until she happens to look?

“Could you have been louder?”

“Aye, I could.” Éomer chuckled. “You want to hear a song?  Work on your poems? Get into a fight?  Moon about your woman some more?” He brightened, “I bet I know a song about at least two of those things.”

“No, no, no, and no.”

“You are the dullest drunken man ever, you know this?”

“Don’t care.”

“Didn’t elves teach you to sing?” Éomer laughed, feeling fine. His head was just slightly spinning. “They obviously didn’t teach you good rhyme, or how to brawl, so they had to spend time on something.”

Aragorn looked like he was attempting to burrow into his own arm to hide. “Yes.”

“Well?”

“I’m not singing. You’ll make fun of me.”

“Fine, I’ll sing.”

Éomer was just drawing in a breath to begin when Aragorn snapped, “No.”

“Well, we’re not just going to sit here.” He glanced around the room, noting the men in it. “Come on, there’s still time to pick a fight.”

“No!”

Searching for a fitting insult, he smiled. “You’re chicken-hearted.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Éomer grinned.

Aragorn glared. “Be silent.”

“Or what?  You’ll compose a bad poem about me? ” He giggled. “Éomer the never-silent and annoying?”

With a growl, the King stood, knocking his chair back.  “You will be still.”

Éomer, impressed, grinned wider.  Finally broke him. “No, I won’t. Now sit, you’re not fighting me.”

“I’m not fighting anyone!” It was nearly a wail.

***

            Faramir climbed into her bed, pushing the blankets back, feeling his and her tension mount. Easy, he cautioned himself. She watched him, the small candle’s light wavering across her face and when he’d gotten in fully she blew the candle out.  There was only the faint sound of her feet moving and he reached out for her mind.  After a few seconds had passed without her coming, he asked, All right?

            Yes, it’s just dark.  It was almost grateful that he should be so considerate and yet, he felt her jump at the mental contact.  It was dark, the kind of deep velvety blackness that would hide her from his eyes—he glanced over at where he knew she was. 

            You don’t have to hide; open the window.

            Éowyn spoke, her voice soft, breathless, “When you watch me it’s hard to relax.”

             Sorry.  Again, he touched her mind, willing some of his relative calm to her. Éowyn froze with her hand on the shutter.

            What was that? She opened it and soft starlight filled the room, giving everything a silvery glow.  He could see her as a white shape against the dark.

            What did it feel like?

            Water, cool water...on a hot day, how it feels so nice running over your skin?  Her inner voice sounded calmer and her weight dipped the bed.  Suddenly he was much less composed, wondering what the hell he was doing.  One wrong move and he could ruin it—Faramir fretted, silently waiting as she swung in and under the blankets.  A second later she reached for him, not quite able to find him as easily as he’d found her and her hand touched his arm, and then hastily withdrew. Barely able to breathe, Faramir held still as she slid over close to him. She was hot in comparison to the cool sheets, a contrast that made him shiver with imaginings.  Valar have mercy upon me, he thought and then asked her, “Can I put my arms around you?”

            “I…I suppose.”  She was nervous and he was surprised to find he missed the alarmingly bold girl of a little while ago.  He moved against her side, putting his arm around her side and resting his other hand upon her stomach.  Éowyn scooted up, her head against his shoulder.  He tried not to think about the fact that under his hand and the unbelievably thin material of her nightgown he could feel the heat of her skin, knowing if he thought about it, it would drive him mad.  She shifted and turned her head to sigh a warm breath against his neck.  When he didn’t move or react, the taut muscles of her stomach relaxed under the limp weight of his hand and he clenched his teeth, searching for something else to think of. 

            “Tell…tell me why I angered you.”

            But Éowyn frowned, not listening, instead asking, What is that little thing poking at me?

***

            “You’re so damn tiresome, how the hell did you get a woman at all?” Aragorn glared at him, but did not speak.  Wishing for entertainment, Éomer kept needling him.  “Are you a man or an elf?  Men brawl, it’s what we do.”

            “Not a cultured man, not a learned man.”

            Gods, he finally speaks.  “Yes you do.”

            Aragorn snapped back, “Don’t.”

            “Do.” Éomer was hiding a grin.

            “Don’t.”

            “Do.”

            “No, I don’t dammit!” As Aragorn shouted, his elbow hit his mug of ale and it went skidding across the floor, smashing against a chair leg and splashing all its contents onto the boots and trousers of several nearby men.  Éomer grinned as they all looked up and glared at the King.  One stood slowly, stomping his wet feet. Aragorn grimaced under the hood of his cloak, pipe forgotten.

            “Looks like you do now.”  He chuckled.  This should prove entertaining.