“What is that?” She asked it again in the tones of a woman, who, once she started laughing, would never stop. Éowyn sat up, her hair lit from behind with the starlight as she looked down at him.  She was smiling in glee; he could feel her keen amusement and wondered at the swift return of that bold girl in the garden.  It’s awfully small, Faramir.  Éowyn snickered, holding one hand to her mouth as he shook his head in surrender and mock displeasure.

            You know what it is already, don’t you?

            Aye, to his surprise he heard her giggle in his head, a necklace.

            You’re a silly girl, then.

            She laughed through her fingers and reached out her hand palm up. “Let me see.  I know what, but I can’t see it.” Éowyn smiled, “You thought about it earlier.”

            “All right.” He sighed, unable to refuse; he had to give it to her now.  Faramir rose up, awkwardly groping in his pocket for what he’d put in there.  His fingers closed around the small, hard shape and he pulled it out.  It gleamed darkly in the starlight as he put it in her cupped hands.  Éowyn’s face grew puzzled and she looked back at him.

            “Oh, it’s so strange—what is it?”

            “A fish that swims in the sea; they’re called dolphins. They’re about as long as a man and they talk in a strange, squealing language.” He sat up fully, leaning back against the headboard.  Barely able to make out her face through her shining hair, he brushed it out of her eyes, but Éowyn did not look up from what she cradled.  He smiled at her fascination and for a moment Faramir was somewhere else and his voice was not his own, but his brother’s, “They swim in front of ships, leaping and darting past the bow; some fishermen won’t go out if there aren’t any.  They’re good luck.”

            He gazed at her, frowning slightly over the pendant.  Éowyn sensed his curiosity and murmured in reassurance, “I like it.”

            You mean it? I was worried when I saw you had no jewelry.

            Yes, this is not like jewelry, She glanced up, “I have my mother’s things—all gold, silver, jewels and the like…but this is something different and uncommon.”  And special to you; I can feel it.  She held it up to the faint starlight.  Hanging on a long rawhide thong, it was about two inches long, a deep, shining blue stone slightly mottled with green.  It was carved into a smoothly bent shape, an almost perfect half circle with a small arched fin on top and then ending rather abruptly into a small point at one end.  At the other was a wide, flat fin.  Along each of its sides were tiny indents of eyes and small nubs for side fins. “It is a strange fish, so bent.” Éowyn held it, her fingers running curiously over the smooth surface. She glanced up and he could see the dim light emphasizing and gilding the planes and curves of her features and again Faramir’s hands itched to draw her.  To take away the powerful desire, he explained,

            “It was my mother’s necklace.  It is one of the few things we had of hers and…” he smiled sadly, fondly, “My brother used to tell me about it over and over when I was a child, repeating her words to him when he was small.  He said we would go one day to the sea and look at these creatures, but,” Faramir sighed, “When I was old enough he was already in training for battle and there was never any time.”

            That’s terrible. Her inner voice was hushed with empathy and Éowyn scooted closer to him, folding her legs and sitting upright, propping herself with one hand.  He was glad for only the dim shine of the stars because her movement tightened her nightgown across her front and he could suddenly see its contents much better.  Faramir glanced quickly away before his thoughts could betray him.  “It’s warm,” she murmured, as lifting the necklace, she put it over her head.  The stone dolphin settled between her breasts and he could see it plainly against the thin, cream-colored nightgown, very gently swinging and darkly shining. 

            He searched for something to say to occupy him before he disturbed her with his thoughts. “It was in my pocket all day.”

            “You said,” She frowned, “you had other things?  Are they like this?”

            “Yes and no. I have two other necklaces—one a pearl, but not like the ones ladies wear in the city, these are different shades: creams, pinks and yellows.  The other is shells strung together, all different with a great, gleaming one in the center and the ring is silver with red coral.” He nodded at the dolphin pendant, though Faramir did not look at it—there was too much enticement there to prevent him from staring like an awestruck teen. “This was always my favorite.”

            She smiled at him, fingering the stone and apparently oblivious. “I like it.”  Éowyn unfolded her legs and slid up the bed to lean her shoulder to his; taking away his temptation and he relaxed slightly.

            “When I was small, I used to look at it and think of my mother, but not as I knew her…” He glanced at Éowyn as she played with the pendant, her fingers tracing it over and over. “It is not something my father would have considered appropriate for the wife of the Steward to wear.  Boromir said it was dusty when he found it and the other things tucked in a drawer and asked her about them.” Faramir put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her warmth, “I used to imagine her as a girl laughing by the sea, not a woman singing sad songs about it in a city bound on all sides by earth, the Anduin only a poor substitute.”

            His voice was sad, resigned and Éowyn leaned against him in what Faramir knew was support; it was welcome.  They sat in silence for a while, and then he heard her thought, I will be the wife of a Steward; it was as if this had just occurred to her and Éowyn looked at him.  Even in the starlight her eyes appeared guarded, yet hopeful as she touched the necklace. 

            Faramir smiled sadly, “Wear what you like, my love, either dresses or men’s clothes…Do what you like, I don’t want you to pine away for anything; he shuddered, remembering his mother’s voice slowly growing thin and cheerless as she’d held him in her lap. 

            Éowyn bit her lip and asked very quietly, “Is that what happened to your mother?”

            “Yes.”

            She curled her knees to her chest, leaning her head back against his arm, her fingers wrapped around the little stone dolphin. “Why did she not leave for a while at least if she was unhappy?”

            Faramir shook his head; he’d asked himself the same question many times. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “All I know about her came from my brother and my own scraps of memories—my father forbid us to mention her name.  He took all her things except this.” Faramir reached out to touch the pendant and she took her hands away for him to cup it as he continued, “And of course the other two necklaces and the ring—those Boromir saved and hid away.” He hesitated and added, “I felt almost guilty taking them—they would have, should have gone to his wife when he wed.  I doubt my father even remembered they existed.”

            Éowyn folded her hands around the dolphin as Faramir handed it back. She said softly, “He must have loved her.”

            “Yes.”  My brother too, oh, why couldn’t he have spared some of that love for me? It came from the deepest part of his mind and went unheard by Éowyn.  “Once my brother accidentally mentioned her in front of him…it was the only time my father ever struck one of us.”

            “That’s horrible.” Her shoulder pressed tighter against him and he felt her compassion and understanding.  It was reassuring and Faramir listened as she spoke,  “I don’t remember my father except for,” Éowyn smiled sadly, “a great booming voice and a smile as his strong arms swung me into the air; he was often gone in battle or his duties.  My mother I remember better. She picked my hair ribbons out of the mud,” She laughed suddenly, “I stamped them into the dirt on purpose—they were pink and I hated them.

             She tried rather unsuccessfully to teach me a lady’s proper manners and scolded me for tearing my dresses when I was playing with Éomer.  Of course she also got me cookies and cakes and let me pat her mare’s new foal. I remember its eyes were very big and it had soft little whiskers all over its nose…I don’t know what ever happened to it.” Éowyn fell quiet and looked up at him, “I remember playing with my toys the second morning after Mother died, being very quiet because Éomer was finally sleeping—he didn’t sleep at all the first day—and Théodred walking into the room.  He asked me, “Are you hungry little sister?” and I said, “I’m not your sister.” She smiled sadly, “ He just looked at me and then picked me up and said, “Now you are.” Her hands played with the dolphin and she asked him, almost begging, “Can we speak of other things?”

            “All right.” He, too, wished to talk of something less sad.  “Tell me something.”

            “What?”

            Faramir tightened his arm around her shoulder. “Anything, just something pleasant.”

***

            At least they’re not especially big…well, except for those two in the back, I suppose they could be called big, Éomer thought as the three men Aragorn’s ale had splattered stood. 

            “I hate you.” The King growled it under his breath, slowly rising from his own chair and turning to face them.  He peered from under his hood and Éomer had to admit, he looked slightly daunting—dark eyed, grim and hard faced…he chuckled, I must be quite drunk.  From his seat, he watched in interest, eagerly awaiting the outcome of this. Shooting him one last glare, Aragorn hesitated and then addressed the leader, “Forgive me, I meant not--” 

            Sticking his chin out, he snapped, “Aye, but ye did.”  Clad in a dirty shirt and battered leather chaps over trousers, he looked like a blacksmith—all wiry muscle.  The two behind him were heavier built and appeared to be masons, stoneworkers? he wondered for there were still pale stone dust clinging to their clothes. As the blacksmith spoke they began pushing back their chairs for more room.  They were true brawling men then and already drunk enough to be quite ready for a good fight.  Éomer wondered if he would need to get involved.  Only if he looks in trouble, something he doubted Aragorn would be—he’d seen the man in battle several times.  Of course this is not battle this is a contest.  Things are different.

            Then Éomer’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  I’ll be damned; he chuckled as the King flipped back his hood.  His lips curled and apparently Aragorn was also drunk enough to forget or temporarily put aside all the pretty words he’d been spewing about civilized and educated men as he sarcastically asked, “Well, what do you wish me to do about it then?”

            The blacksmith grinned with yellowed teeth, recognizing the challenge.  Éomer prudently picked up his mug of ale and stood, not wanting to find himself in the middle of this. I’ve already had my fight, he thought and that reminded him he’d wished to see his sister.  Damn, its probably too late now. All over the tavern people were looking at their corner, curious and eager for entertainment.  Aragorn stood his ground, an almost contemptuous expression on his face as the blacksmith sneered and one of the stonemasons growled, “Teach ‘em a lesson for that mouth.”

            He laughed thickly in his narrow, barrel-chest and tensed his stringy arms; the chuckle was an ugly sound from an ugly man. “I will.”

***

            “Pleasant?” Éowyn repeated thoughtfully.

            “Yes, something cheering. A memory, a tale, anything—just happy.”  He could still feel her gloom; it weighed on him, adding to his as he very slowly began to ease back on some of his control.

            Her head turned sharply towards him, chin pointing, then just as sharply back.  Her hair swung and her voice was strangely indistinct as she muttered, “I can feel that.”

            He instantly restrained himself again and Faramir worriedly asked her, “What does it feel like?”        

            Éowyn sighed as though she’d just woken and her eyes were dark in the dim starlight. “Felt like you were, oh, like…” She turned then, sitting up on her bent knees and touched his face with her hand.  Her fingers curved around his cheek and the dolphin pendant dropped lightly against his chest as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.  It was almost fierce and Faramir was surprised, but had the presence of mind to respond with control instead of the alarming eagerness that he’d wanted.  Éowyn then pulled back slightly, her eyes on his as she held her upper body against him, her arms wrapping tight around his neck.  He swallowed anxiously, holding himself immobile and thinking she’d been right—he was terribly afraid to scare her, but with good reason, she’d tried to dismiss him twice already in one night.  Valar, please…Faramir begged inwardly.

            Oh, hush…you’re so good, noble a laugh against his mouth I’m not afraid when I can feel you like that. With a small smile Éowyn twined her fingers in his hair, so close he could feel her front press against him when she breathed, the dolphin’s nose poking hard against his skin.  Then, she kissed him further, again with stirring heat that drove him all the more mad for being unable to respond as he’d like. 

            Pulling away just as his hand escaped him and rested upon the small of her back to urge her closer, her voice was serious as she said,  “It felt like you were pressing against me. All intensity and unwavering force—so strong I could hear your heart beating, feel its rhythm and how patient and good it was.” Éowyn sighed, sitting back on her heels, blankets puddled low around her thighs and her golden hair shining silvery in the starlight,  “He made you forget somehow, he thought it was…” She hesitated and he felt a surprising flicker of dishonesty from her, “a kindness. But I can show you because part of you still remembers and I saw it.”

            It took Faramir a second to pry his eyes and suddenly riotous intentions away and sternly order himself to act befitting a gentleman before he could ask, though a bit hoarsely, “Show me what, saw what?”

            It was not an answer; but it came from her as almost a strange chant: “You hid in the libraries, hiding in the darkness all alone until you were pale and thin and all wide eyes.  Boromir worried, but even his mind was too much.”

            Slightly alarmed, he began, “I don’t—“

            “I know.” Éowyn smiled nervously, biting her lip.  Faramir wanted to bite it too, but contented himself with just watching. “Do you want to?”

            He did, oh he did looking at her in the starlight. Stop it fool, Faramir lectured himself grimly; she showed no signs of hearing him or guessing his struggles. Thankfully, oh thankfully. “Yes, show me.”

            Éowyn put her hand to his temple, her eyes searching his.  She scooted right up next to him with her front against his side and asked in a breathless voice, “Ready?”

            She was beautiful and desirable and her breasts were soft against his arm—Faramir cleared his mind, focusing. “Yes.” And her fingers were light on his eyelids as she closed his eyes and then the world fell away as though the tight bindings that held him in her bed, her room, his body had been abruptly cut and he remembered.  Valar…oh…

***

            Aragorn, still wearing an admirably contemptuous sneer, ducked the punch with surprising speed and slammed his fist into the blacksmith’s face as Éomer watched over the rim of his mug.  Absently swirling the ale in his mouth, he swallowed as Aragorn, his knuckles already a bit blood-splattered, took a good hit in return. The stoneworkers moved around the two and Éomer watched them closely and suspiciously—three on one was hardly fair Ranger, Dúnedain, and King or no—if they jumped upon Aragorn all at once he would have to join the fight. 

            In the dark tavern Aragorn’s cloak rippled and eddied as he moved, its drab and tattered edges merging with the dim light and making it hard for the blacksmith to aim for anything other than his face.   But, as he ducked again, he was able to double the other man over with a hard hit to the gut.  Wheezing, the blacksmith stumbled back and growled a cursing command at the other men.  Aragorn moved his jaw back and forth, fingers rubbing it as he waited.  And here I thought civilized men don’t brawl, he’s doing well enough, and Éomer grinned to himself. 

            One of the stoneworkers stepped up next to take his place and Aragorn looked disgusted as he evaded the man’s heavy, slow punch.  Much faster, he was confident, unaware as the other man came in from behind.  Éomer’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted in repugnance as the second stoneworker struck Aragorn in the kidneys with both hands interlaced.  Surprised, hurt, the King stumbled right into the first man’s fist.  It was a hard blow and he stumbled again, barely able to keep his balance on the slick, filthy floor and when he went to one knee the second man kicked him in the gut.  The blacksmith grinned through bloody teeth as Aragorn nearly fell, only managing to stagger back up at the last second.  The two men circled him and Éomer, utterly incensed with the dishonorable display, set down his mug of ale.  It looked as though he’d have to get involved after all.  Too bad, he was doing so well and he could have really used it.     

***

            It took him a moment, floundering, to gather himself and remember—I always believed I only dreamed doing this as a child, Faramir thought in amazement; my entire life I didn’t think I was capable of anything like this…he laughed inwardly, feeling completely unrestrained, utterly free.  He hovered near Éowyn’s familiar presence, watching as she sat back and gazed at him.  I look asleep, Faramir thought to himself, watching his eyes move back and forth under their lids.  She touched his cheek and he hesitated but then, rising, rising he was flying across the city, lighter than the wind and he looked down to see it.  The world was dark, dim and shadowy, lit only by the gleam of his people’s minds.  Some burning bright, others soft, some flickering with pain, dying, some happy, some sad, some…he knew suddenly he could see through their eyes, read their thoughts if he bent upon them…angered.  Moving farther and ever swifter he passed them by, his reach expanding to that of the outer walls and beyond…small tents of Rohirrim, most sleeping as their horses stood or lay quiet.  A few Tower guards stared out into the night, not expecting to see anything and terribly glad for it…then over the Pelennor.  He curved closer to the river, and swooped through the ruins of Osgiliath, finding slumbering crews of men who’d spent the day gleaning stones from the broken city to repair Minas Tirith, over whom a small net of guards stood watch.  They, too, expected to see nothing. 

            The landscape was dark with the night and he turned back and forth, searching.  To the east he sensed black panic rising from the very few orcs who still survived. They were crouching in holes, growling weakly, nostrils snuffling at the horribly fresh air, bitterly gazing at the ruins of Barad-dûr…but farther still were the strange minds of the men who lived in different, distant lands.  Faramir could not reach them, though, so he turned back to the west.  It was bright with the light of peoples and he drew closer the edges of his range, curious until--   

            Faramir, come back to me? Can you hear me?

              It was concerned but he wavered.  From far, far away he felt her touch his face, felt her worry, her fingers gently brushing his closed eyelids and his brow. Éowyn. But the world pulled strongly, luring him with more and more horizons to pass over, things to behold…the brilliant, powerful glow of the elven realms, their shielded forms barely seen.  And then roving with increasing freedom, his inner eye peered into the far west, then the easier south and strained over the waves for a glimpse of what lay beyond, knowing if he tried just a little harder…but he resisted.  It was not for him yet or possibly at all...but there was one thing here that was his. 

             “Faramir?”

            Feeling at once both awkward and confined back in his body, he opened his eyes to her wide blue ones, dark in the starlight.  Hovering over him, Éowyn smiled; she was obviously glad to have him back and Faramir laboriously straightened.  Sitting up, he lifted his hand; it was so heavy, seemed so heavy now, to cup her chin as he gave her a brief and warm kiss. He murmured in gratitude as he pulled away, “Thank you” and settled wearily back against the headboard.  His head ached and his muscles felt oddly stiff. He flexed his knees then toes, frowning, but was relieved as the unpleasant sensations began to fade. 

            “What did you see?” she moved back over to his side, curling her legs beneath her, the blankets bunching.  The constellations gleamed down through the open window, lighting on the dolphin as it swung gently back and forth across her front and he captured it in a swift movement, enfolding it in his fist. 

            “Everything.” He laughed as energy flowed back through him.  Faramir was about to speak of the way he’d flown out of himself and then stopped, feeling her growing self-conscious—she was very aware, not frightened, but just very aware that his hand was only inches from her breasts.  Éowyn’s eyes were slightly averted and Faramir smiled gently at her, deliberately setting the pendant back against the front of her nightgown.  Her skin was warm beneath his palm and fingers, the bottom edge of his flattened hand resting very lightly against her and brushing against the curved and sensitive swells as she breathed.  Éowyn flushed, her head turning quickly away; her hair hid her profile and he wished for his other hand to tuck it back. 

            She swallowed, her hands moving in her lap, fidgeting nervously.  He was confident, however, feeling her emotions vividly, fully—he’d been released from whatever constraints his father had out of kindness or no, placed upon him.   Éowyn wasn’t panicky any longer; he’d gotten her past that at least, but only untried and untouched and she didn’t know how far he would go before he stopped. 

            “Faramir…” She shifted under his palm, licking her lips, uncomfortable with such behavior.  But she did not attempt to get away and he didn’t remove his hand. 

            “Don’t worry, I’m noble, virtuous and good.” He teased her, sensing no fear of him at the moment, although he had an entirely certain idea that if he slid his hand much or at all to either side she might become rather alarmed.  The temptation to cup one, even if it resulted in a slap in the face, was great but he withstood it; moving gently under the tide of her breath, they were soft, yet firm and he knew damn well if he wanted to touch them again anytime soon he’d better not. 

            “Yes…” Éowyn held still, tolerating his touch, though obviously with misgivings.  Determined to get her used to something more impassioned than a kiss, he didn’t withdraw, feeling her breathing speed and then grow slightly irregular with anxiety as he slowly spread his fingers. The dolphin twisted to nosed his palm and she blurted, “Please stop, don’t...”  

            He smiled to reassure her, although he was more than saddened, he was almost mournful with longing for that bold and brazen girl Éowyn sometimes showed him. “I told you I would not dare before,” He took her hand and squeezed it, showing his care for her feelings, “I think I’d probably end up being pushed off the bed.”  Éowyn smiled, relaxing as he took his hand back.  The blankets felt even colder than before against his palm and she immediately moved against his side, chin resting on his shoulder to block any other teasing attempts.  Faramir looked down the bed.  Her front was tight against him but her lower body, with her far leg stretched out and the other with her knee curled toward his, left him easy access to the dip of her waist and the low swelling of her hip.  In the starlight he gazed her curves outlined by the blankets and the sudden desire to run his hand over them almost overwhelmed him. Perhaps…he looked down at her head mischievously but in defeat already.  Surely she wouldn't be too distressed or angry—it wasn’t as though he’d be grabbing himself two handfuls of her backside.  Not yet, anyway, Faramir smothered a laugh, I have to wait for my other hand to heal first and even then, he eyed her—she’s awfully slim for two hands.     

            “What’s so funny?” Éowyn stretched an arm across his chest, her fingers gripping his side and he felt her curiosity and swiftly subsiding anxiety through the link between them as easily as he felt her breath on his collar or her hair tickling his chin. 

            He grinned in the darkness. “Nothing.  You still haven’t told me anything pleasant.”

            “Oh,” She sighed, now fully relaxed, pulling the covers up and added, “let me think.”

            Take your time, love. He smiled and moved his hand to lay it back on her upper thigh, feeling his palm and the pads of his fingers heat immediately even through the blanket.  Éowyn paid him no mind, as he wasn’t doing anything remotely threatening and his smile widened.  In the depths of his consciousness, Faramir thought, One step forward, none back yet … at least so far.

***

            As the second man kicked Aragorn again, trying for his knees to send him to the ground, Eomer stopped to think.  His nose was already broken and rushing into this could get him further hurt.  Mindfully picking up the King’s pipe and checking to see that it was fully out, he stuffed it in his pocket and selected one of the empty mugs still laying on their table. Although he was only slightly unsteady on his feet Éomer moved very carefully, mindful of the slick, ale-splattered floor.  The two stoneworkers circled Aragorn continually and the King, trying to watch both of them at once, was not having much success.  For every blow evaded, he got hit from the other side and Éomer, noticing, moved quicker.  Aragorn was still impressively holding his own, though, and returning most of the punches thrown at him even as he came closer.

            He shifted his grip on the mug and stepped directly behind the second man, grasping a handful of his shirt.  Spinning to face him, he looked surprised as Éomer grinned pleasantly and he asked in confusion,  “Hey, what’re--”

             The mug, thick and well-fired clay meant to withstand many a clumsy drunk, smashed across his face and the man, stunned, stumbled to his knees. “There are rules of conduct to follow in a brawl, you know.” Éomer sternly lectured, pulling him back up.  The stoneworker stared at him, as he grinned, “Two on one is against them.” and punched him in the throat.  Gagging, the second man fell backwards. Éomer paused for thought, then added bemused, “Unless of course, he was a giant.” At his side, Aragorn straightened, panting and blinked at him, in confusion, so he asked, “What? You’ve never seen a giant before?”

            Rubbing his back as the first man backed away, uncertain now that his victim had an ally, the King shook his head in what could have been disbelief or simply disgust and said, “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.” Éomer cheerfully replied and turned to the three men. He rolled his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles getting ready and foolishly hoping none of them would hit him in the nose.  Of course they will it’s what I would do right away.  The blacksmith glowered at him furiously but did not step forward.  After a moment of contemplating—eyeing the scarcely injured man and large fresh one—and trying to guess the odds of victory, the first stoneworker half-dragged his friend up and the three pushed their way out the door.  The crowd began to disperse back to their tables and Éomer fished Aragorn’s pipe out of his pocket and handed it to him.

            “Thank you.” It was far more grateful than the earlier thanks, piquing his curiosity. 

            “Why is that so important to you?”

            A slow grin spread over Aragorn’s bruised and slightly bloody face. “You want to try some? It’s South-farthing, straight from Isengard—it’s very good, the best of hobbit leaf you’ll ever come across.”

            Éomer frowned. “I don’t know.”  Aragorn wiped his face and smiled.

            “I do.”

***

            Éowyn’s nose itched and she rubbed it against Faramir’s shirt; she didn’t want to speak, really.  It was much nicer to just lie here curled around him safe and half-asleep under the blankets.  Finally, she could feel his expectation and murmured, “You go first.”  Her ear against his chest, his voice sounded deep, muffled and loud as he said,

            “All right, give me a moment.” 

            She nodded and as she waited she smiled, amused by herself; lifting up the pendant, she made the dolphin swim bumpily across his chest, turning back when the little blue and green stone carving reached the end of its tether.  The cloth sea rose sharply with his laugh and she smiled, twisting the rawhide thong between her fingers to watch the fish spin around.  His fingers tapped a rhythm on her hip and her toes curled with apprehension; he was a good man and a kind one, the only one whose touch she’d ever borne without feeling as though it would make her sick with hatred and self-loathing, but it was difficult.  The stars shone and shimmered through the window and Éowyn closed her eyes tiredly, thinking to herself that it was late.

            However, almost immediately she opened them again.  Faramir’s hand on her thigh had been warm and flat but now, curiously, as he thought he moved it in slow circles.  His fingers gently pressed and massaged, reaching to stroking up and down her side.  She doubted he could reach anything consequential without sliding himself up or down, not to mention putting his hand beneath the blankets.  Not terribly concerned, Éowyn closed her eyes again as he kept on.  It feels good actually, she thought and felt herself flush with embarrassment when he replied,

            “It does feel nice.”  It sounded as though he was smiling and she swallowed as he moved his fingers, still gently kneading.   Then he took them away and she was almost disappointed until his hand was suddenly beneath the blankets and resting lightly on her side.  It didn’t move and she could tell he wanted to expand the area he was touching, but was waiting for her.  Don’t be nervous.  Faramir’s inner voice was soft and she felt the connection between them deepen as he let her in.  Éowyn’s eyes fluttered with the sensation—the gigantic increase in her awareness of him, his body, the way he was carefully holding back his desires—until feeling what his intentions were, all of them clearly outlined, she loosened her grip on his shirt and turned to face away from him.  His hand led his body, descending until it finally rested on her abdomen as Faramir carefully slid down from the headboard and curled around her.   His breath was warm on her earlobe as he murmured, “All right?”

            “Yes.”  This was all he’d wanted and it was fine with her.  Faramir’s entire front pressed warmly to her backside, his left arm a cushion beneath her neck, with his right wrapped around her waist.  He blew some of her hair out of his way and thumped his fingers on her belly playfully.  “Take turns?”

            “All right.”

***

            Éomer frowned, remembering coughing earlier from the smoke blown in his face.  How could it be any better directly inhaling the stuff?  “I don’t.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

            Looking at him with something bordering delight, Aragorn picked up his drink at their table and asked, “Why?” He grinned widely, “Chicken-hearted?”

            “Clever, that’s very clever.” Sprawling back into his chair, Aragorn drank; he spilled some on himself, wincing at his split lip and Éomer sighed inwardly as the King set his pipe on the tabletop. 

            “Come on, I told my poetry.”  He tamped out the ashes, scraping the bowl.

            Éomer winced and chuckled in remembrance as he sat down, “That is true.”

            Shooting him a glare, Aragorn added, “And I fought.” Next taking out a little package, he broke off a small section of compacted dried weeds, crumbled them and began packing it all in the wide pipe bowl, all the while grinning.  Éomer found it rather disconcerting and he reluctantly agreed, 

            “Aye, you did. However, you had no choice.”

            “I had a choice.”

            Éomer snorted. “I wouldn’t have been seen with you if you hadn’t.”

            “Here.” Aragorn was finished and he held the pipe out expectantly, frowning when he didn’t reach for it. 

            Éomer stirred uneasily. I don’t wish to look like a fool, he thought. “Not in here.”

            “Why?”  The King looked practically gleeful now; he glanced around in mock suspicion.  “You think someone’s watching?”

             “No.”

            “Yes.” He poked the pipe-stem at his hand.  It looked chewed and Éomer was disgusted. Aragorn snickered. “I think you do.”

             “No.”

            “Yes.” He was poked again and withdrew in irritation, taking his hand away from the middle of the table.

            “No.”

            “Yes.” A much sharper poke this time, Aragorn leaning forward to get him, a mad grin plastered on his face all the while.  Éomer stared at him in alarm.  Gods, I’m never getting him drunk again…he’s terribly annoying! “You’re doing it.”  

            “No! Stop that!” He slapped at the pipe and tried to reason with him, “Tell me—what would I light it with anyway?” Gesturing at the lanterns, he arched an eyebrow.

            For the first time Aragorn appeared confused.  His forehead creased as he thought and then he brightened,  “Oh, fine, we’ll go out and grab a torch or a candle or something. Get up; this is an gift,” He looked pointedly at Éomer, “I don’t have much you know.”

            “I feel so appreciated,” he deadpanned and waited for Aragorn to realize he wasn’t the one paying for all the ale they’d drunk. Éomer grinned slightly. “Really, I do.”

***

            “Let’s see.” His breath was warm on her ear as Faramir began. “I can—hmm,” The rest was rushed, “I can…playtheharp, you’re turn.”

            “What?” Éowyn shifted onto her back to look at him.  He seemed almost mortally embarrassed and she tried not to giggle. “What did you say?”

            “I can play the harp—and the flute; neither very well any more, of course,” Faramir frowned, “it’s been over twenty years.”

            The flute, too? She laughed, “Why?”

            He looked uncomfortable, his index finger tracing a circle on her hip but for once she ignored him completely. “They made me.”

            She scoffed, “Made you?”

            “I had to learn something like that, it was part of my education.”

            Éowyn turned still further, facing him fully, using his left forearm as a pillow.  Faramir’s hand now rested on the small of her back and she barely paid attention to it when he tugged playfully at the back of her nightgown.  “What were the other parts?”

            “It’s your turn.” One of his lower legs was between hers and she laid her arms against the front of his chest as he moved closer, then twined one around his neck—reasoning there was no where else to put it. Faramir didn’t seem to mind at all; he even felt pleased, urging, “Tell me something.”

            She thought for a moment, then smiled, “I had eight governess’.”

            He sounded and felt shocked. “What?”

            “Your turn—I want to hear what else you can do.”

            “No, wait, go back to that. Eight? Why did you have eight?”

            “They kept leaving.” Éowyn smiled. “Or Éomer kept releasing them.” She frowned, thinking, “The last one went when I was thirteen; she slapped me—I was being horrible, I assure you it really wasn’t her fault—and I slapped her back, of course, and called her,” She giggled, “a dried-up old bag.” Faramir laughed as she continued, “And then she really slapped me and I screamed for my brother and he took one look at the big red mark across my face and ordered her out of the house. Your turn.”

            “Well, I don’t know if I can top that.”

            She wiggled her toes, gripping his trouser cuffs between them and tugged. “Tell me the other parts of your education.”

            He sighed, “Let’s see—I had to learn music, art, history—lot’s of that, and mathematics.  Then, I learned how to wage war, diplomacy, how to command and survival skills.” Faramir sighed again, even deeper, his chest moving against her arm as he listed, “I know how to play the harp and the flute; I can’t sing at all, but I know many songs,” He paused, “You can sing very well, you know.”

            She looked away, embarrassed. “No…”

            “Yes, you can.  Anyway, I can draw—I actually started one of you, but I’ll have to burn it.” He leaned forward, suddenly making her realize just how close he was, all wrapped around her, their bodies touching.  Faramir kissed her very lightly, his mouth just brushing hers and added teasingly, “It’s all wrong, not you at all—a woman all cool and unapproachable.”

            Fighting to ignore his flattery, she hesitantly asked, “Will you do another?”

             He chuckled, “I would do as many as you and my hands would abide.” Faramir’s hand caressed her side, her back. It felt very large and she nervously clutched the dolphin, rubbing the hard little carving. “I want to right now, this nightgown in the candle light—it would give me lots of brightness and darkness—lots of contrasts, and it shows your shape quite well.”

            She blushed, a little alarmed at all the thought he’d given it, but when she concentrated on him, she could feel nothing but amusement and contented love.  Reassured, she asked, “What else?”

            “I can dance, fairly well actually.”

            Éowyn smiled. “I can’t.”

            Faramir gave a small laugh. “No?  What did those governess’ teach you?”

            “Not much, I didn’t give them a chance—they had enough trouble keeping me in my dresses and out of the dirt.” 

            He laughed again, his mind linking, connecting to her; ah yes, my wild one. Suddenly feeling his longing, Éowyn’s arm slid back around his shoulder as Faramir leaned in to kiss her.  It was gentle, only small, repetitive kisses with his mouth barely touching hers and his mind encouraging her to respond to him, to willingly deepen them.  She resisted, pushing her other hand against his chest, but he only moved to kiss her neck.  Éowyn swallowed as he asked What? His mental voice was puzzled, and then calmly murmuring I am no uncontrolled boy.  Don’t worry about that—but if you want me to stop tell me.

            Her voice hitched as he hit a particularly sensitive area then moved on and then she was completely taken aback—she’d come damn close to tangling her hands in his hair and dragging him back to the spot. Éowyn quickly choked out, “Stop.”

            “Fine.” He sighed, settling back.  “Your turn.”

            “What?” She was still distracted by herself. I can’t believe…

            “Can’t believe what?” Faramir frowned at her.
            “Nothing, nothing. Umm.” Éowyn nervously fingered the stone dolphin. “No, I’m giving my turn to you.”

            “All right.” He sounded concerned, but thought for a moment.  Faramir’s hand moved idly up and down her spine, fingers gently pressing as he said, “I can sew.” And she forgot her astonishment and discomfort in an instant. Éowyn giggled helplessly, flopping a little away from him, laughing harder as he asked, “What is it?”

            Unable to stop, she answered mentally.  Oh, Faramir—the harp, the flute, dancing, and sewing…you are more womanish than I am.

            I am not.

            Yes, yes you are. I bet you can cook, too.  At his embarrassed silence she exploded in giggles, kicking her feet in delight and tossing the blankets.

            Stop that. Éowyn laughed harder as he frowned. A cold breeze from the open window blew across her exposed toes and she shivered, still snickering.  Deciding that it really didn’t matter anymore, she threw back the covers and got out of bed to close the shutters.  Faramir sat up, worriedly projecting,

            Where are you going?

            Éowyn glanced back and laughed at him. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it dear.

                He harrumphed at her and she smiled.