Faramir watched her walk to the window, wrapping her arms around herself as the wind made her thin nightgown flutter. “It’s gotten cold,” Éowyn turned back to explain; her hair blew silvery and pale gold in the starlight and her silhouette made him itch to draw her again.  Then suddenly perceiving her intentions, he sat up further and begged, “Oh, don’t close that.”

            She frowned and gave a shiver for emphasis, saying, “It feels like winter in here.”

            “Don’t close it; I won’t be able to see you.” Faramir pleaded.  Éowyn looked puzzled and he added, “Please?” Then, teasing, he patted her side of the bed, “Come back, I’ll keep you warm.”

            Ignoring his small jest, she shook her head, still puzzled. “You don’t need to see me; you know what I look like.”

            He tried to explain. “Yes, that’s why I want to see you.”

            Even in the dim room he could see her roll her eyes. “Faramir—“

            “How long?” His voice sounded tense, almost angry and he tried to control himself. 

            “What?” Éowyn asked in worried bewilderment; she appeared slightly nervous at his tone.  Poised with her hands stretched up on the shutters, another breeze flapped her nightgown and made her hair fly out behind her like a tawny cloak.  Back and forth across her breasts, the dolphin pendant swung in the light wind, glinting from the stars.  The urge to draw her, to command her to stand in that position while he ran to his rooms took him.  Valar, but if I had paper and a pencil, I would draw until I could no longer move my hand—the light of her garment, the dark of the window against the black of the wall, the way she stands so erect against the night sky, looking back!  Oh, even her expression—it is so vulnerable, so touching!  But after a moment it passed and Faramir succeeded in sounding more normal as he continued,

             “How long, after this morning, will it be before I see you again?”

            Looking away, she slowly answered. “I don’t know.”

            “Then leave it.” He came across as harsh again despite himself, so he added, “Please, my love” as she glanced quickly at him.  To his intense relief her hands fell from the wooden shutters to rest at her sides. 

            “All right, if you wish.” Éowyn frowned then, looked at her feet, then back to him. “Why did I walk across this icy floor then?”

            Relieved, he smiled, “I don’t know; come back here and I’ll warm you.”

            A rare and teasing smile came across her face as she curled one of her feet on top of the other, hands held out and spread to balance. It was a childish and yet endearing pose—again he cursed the lack of drawing supplies.  “Will you make it up to me?”

            “I suppose.” Faramir shrugged, not understanding but willing.

            Now she was jesting, but he didn’t know what about until Éowyn added with an even more rare, wicked little-girl giggle, “Let me plait your hair?”

            He scoffed at the very idea and began moving the blankets for her. “No.”

            “Please? I’ll make it pretty. I can get ribbons—different colors; I can braid.”

            She was still teasing him about being womanish then. He gave her a glare of mock fury, which only made her laugh. “Never, now get over here.”

            To his surprise Éowyn bounded quickly back over the floor, and into the bed, making it bounce.  She pouted at him, hair hanging all around her shoulders as she sat, her legs folded under her and he knew there was no way she could know how adorable she looked.  Her lower lip stuck out, mischief hiding in her eyes as she tilted her head, “Please?” and Faramir wanted to yank her over to his side and do a great many things he knew he shouldn’t.

            “No.”

            “You’re no fun at all—like an old woman.”

            Was I looking for that bold girl? He wondered; ah, here she is now. Faramir scolded, “Come over here, you said you were cold.”

            “I am.”  She stayed put, still looking mischievous.

            “Then…” Pretending exasperation he leaned forward and then sideways, wrapping his hand and forearm around her waist and tugged.  Éowyn allowed him to pull her down; she even slid close in on her own to lie facing him like before.  Yanking the blankets back up to cover her, Faramir was surprised as she put her arm around him again, fingers twirling the hair at the nape of his neck.  Her other arm folded against his chest and she stuck her lower legs between his, shivering at the temperature change.  He slid his hand beneath the blankets, running it up her back.  Her nightgown was chilled from the wind and Faramir murmured, “You are cold, aren’t you?”

            “Yes.” Her nose touched his chin and he jumped—it was ice-cold.  Aren’t you?

            No, but I’m wearing more. He snuggled closer, gently chafing her arms and reminded her.  “It’s your turn.”  

            “All right.” Éowyn closed her eyes, shifting her head back onto the pillow to get more comfortable. “I can cook—nothing elaborate, really—only roasts or stews or things like that.  I can sew—but only because Eomer won’t let any of the women do it.” She sighed in deep and long lived resignation, “He says they don’t do it right, but he’s just being foolish.”

            “He makes you do it?” For some reason Faramir found this amusing.

            “Yes, always.  He throws his clothes all over my bed and expects me to mend them as if I had nothing else to do.” Éowyn moved again and nuzzled her chilly cheek into his left forearm, pillowing her head on it like she’d done before.  She laughed, “I can throw a spear more accurately then he can, you know.”

            “Really?”

            “Well, not as far or as hard, of course, but I can hit the target every time, even if it’s very small.” Éowyn’s fingers had moved to tracing intricate patterns on the back of his neck and Faramir found it distracting, although in a pleasant way. “Also I can organize men into mounted defense, offense and lead them in the patterns of attack—and recognize and correct errors, both horse and or rider.” She smiled, “Once I got rid of my governess’ I spent many, many hours on a training field with both Théodred and my brother.”  And then, to his surprise, she leaned in closer, her hand tightening on the back of his neck and she gave him—he saw her, hair tied back with wisps floating as her horse galloped up and down the line of mounted men.  The sun was bright on the grass and Éowyn shouted commands as she rode, twisting in the saddle.  Lightweight training shields were raised, along with blunted spears and the men replied in chorused yells, “Aye!”

            Wheeling her horse, she pointed downfield and as her hand dropped Éowyn touched her heels to her mount’s flanks, letting her reins slip through her fingers.  Rising up, all four feet briefly leaving the ground in its eagerness, the gelding bolted; the voices of the men behind her became a roar, under which there was the thunder of hoof beats as they followed.  Stretching into a long line, they galloped strongly, presenting an impressive show of mounted force.  Looking ahead, Faramir saw an equally long line of what looked like infantry, but they weren’t.  Instead they were clothing stuffed full of straw and propped upon stakes to look like men. Shields and swords of thin foil were tied on as well as old, dented helms and armor.

             The horses, he now saw they were young and green—moved awkwardly, pulling half-sideways, they shied at the flags flapping in the wind and bucked under their riders as they neared—swiftly bore down upon the mock army.  Some wheeled away or tried to jump the mock soldiers, but the majority galloped through and in an instant the puppets were reduced to scattered clothing, armor and straw.  Éowyn was to the side, turned in her saddle, one hand planted on the rump of her horse as she watched.  As the riders slowed, lavishly praising their young mounts, she reorganized them to go again, men setting the mock army back up behind her.   

            And suddenly it was over.  Impressed with the vision, he listened as she continued, her voice low at first, then more normal as she went on, “It’s important for them to feel no fear about charging a line.”  Éowyn sighed, “I’m also skilled with a sword and I’m a fairly good shot with the small hunting bows—“

            “Small hunting bows?”

                “The big war bows are too much for me.” Éowyn didn’t seem at all bothered to admit her weakness and he wondered. “I’m not strong enough to pull them back.”

            “Oh. Go on, this is interesting.”

            He watched her face in the starlight: peacefully smooth, closed eyelids with pale lashes; only her mouth moved as she spoke.  Her hair hid her ear with more gleaming strands lying on her neck; he could still see the marks he’d left on her through them and it made him feel strangely possessive. I am the first, the last and the only, he thought and Faramir nestled closer as Éowyn murmured, “I can train a horse; take it all the way from a halter to under saddle or before a cart.” Her eyes briefly opened to his and she smirked, “I can ride sidesaddle, even jump and hunt game from it; which is far more difficult than what you do in a regular saddle—it takes learning an entirely new way to balance.”

            He smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”

            “When you come to Edoras I’ll let you sit in mine.”

            She laughed at his tone when he replied, but Faramir thought the idea was completely absurd. “No.”

            “Why not?” Éowyn giggled, opening her eyes again.  They were mischievous once more and the thought passed through his mind, Somehow, I’ve been rendered harmless again. How? I need to know.  She smiled at him, her hand twisting his shirt, warm on his chest between them.  “We’ll do it somewhere where no one will see.”

            He objected, forgetting his thought and still a little appalled, “No, I’m not sitting in a sidesaddle—those are…”

            It was amused and scornful as she rolled her eyes at him. “For women?”

            “Well, yes.”

            “You’re already far more womanish than I am, I don’t see why—” she stretched out her legs, resting her feet on the tops of his.  The soles were chill and he twisted involuntarily. She scolded, “Hold still” and pulled his hair.

            Surprised, he complained. “Ow.”

            “Hush—see? You sound just like a girl.” Faramir snorted in disgust and Éowyn arched an eyebrow, wearing a little triumphant smile. “What?  You know it’s true.”

            “Just because I can sew, dance and cook doesn’t mean that—I can’t cook very well, you know—just enough to make something decent for myself when I’m in the wood.”

She pinched him and to his astonishment felt her light, questing touch through their link; Éowyn giggled,  “Liar; you made a pie once.” She bit her lip, gazing at him in undisguised glee, “Blackberry, was it?  Boromir laughed at you, too.”

Faramir ignored that, pressing onwards even though he now knew it was a losing battle. “And I can’t sew that well, either—mending rips in my clothes is about it.”

            “Again you lie.” Her hand touched his face and her voice was sly, “What’s this about a butterfly stitch?” Éowyn giggled again and then asked, “Don’t you have men to do those things for you?”  She was playing with the back collar of his shirt, rolling it between her fingers now and one of her feet tapped repetitively at his leg.  
            He ignored her assertions; he’d only told partial lies.  “Yes, but if one of them is hurt I’m not too proud to do it for myself or others—once we’re out of the city our safety and success depends upon everyone helping and working together.”

            It was a moment before she spoke again. “Hmm, you didn’t say anything about dancing.”

            “Oh, I’m very good at that.”

            She laughed, teasing him, her fingernails lightly running up and down the nape of his neck; her other hand now played with her necklace between them. Curious, Faramir wondered why she was so fidgety—he felt no anxiety coming from her.  In fact, Éowyn felt quite comfortable with him as she scolded. “Braggart.”

            “No, I’m really very good.” He paused, thinking of their wedding. Undoubtedly it would be large and extravagant event, a pleasant diversion for all the nobles and an excuse to show off their finery as anything. “I’ll teach you.”

            Éowyn must have caught his thoughts then, because she sobered and quieted, her hands lying limply on his skin. “All right.” Her feet shifted between his. “Your turn.”

            Oh, don’t shy away.  Not now, love, he pleaded.  She did not reply, so he searched his mind and answered, “I can write—not exceptional by any means, but decent—poetry.”

            She seemed intrigued, her eyes dark in the starlight as she looked up. “I like poetry.”

            Faramir hesitated, wanting to ask what he’d guessed since he’d heard her sing. “Answer me something?”  He knew she could feel his faltering, but not its cause when Éowyn frowned, then nodded. “Was the song you sang yours—did you write it?” She looked away and he felt her tense physically and emotionally. Quickly backtracking, anxious not to upset her, he began, “You don’t have to…”

            “It’s not very good.”

            Her voice was small, but he heard it. “I thought what you told me was.”  Faramir rubbed her back in what he hoped was an encouraging way, “Tell me the rest?” 

            “I don’t know.”  Éowyn didn’t meet his eyes, obviously uncomfortable. 

            “I’ll—” He grimaced, thinking of what had been running through his mind off and on lately. “I’ll share something of mine.”

            She peeped up through her lashes at him, twisting the dolphin pendant, obviously surprised and interested. Faramir felt her discomfiture recede and he relaxed as Éowyn nodded, “All right.”

***

            A small and weakly flickering torch in his hand, Aragorn was bent over, staring at the ground as he walked back and forth.  He was looking for a twig or bit of something with which to light his pipe and having little luck.  Éomer sighed deeply, watching.  He’d been bored ever since they’d left the tavern.  Shifting his back, trying to get more comfortable as he leaned against the wall, he asked, “Give up yet?”

            “No.”

            Aragorn looked about some more.  His shadow flared and swooped wildly, making strange shapes.  Éomer didn’t even want to smoke; this was a waste of time as far as he was concerned.  “How about now?”

            “No.”  It was exasperated and that gave him some small satisfaction. Several minutes, fruitless on Aragorn’s part and dull on his passed before he spoke again.

            “You think that woman liked me?”

“What?” Aragorn straightened to stare at him as Éomer elaborated,

“The one in the tavern, the dark-haired in the red dress with the...” He motioned up and down with his hands in front of his chest and the King burst out laughing.

“That one?” He shook his head, kicking at the ground and then looked back up. “I don’t know—how should I know?”

“I just wondered.”  Éomer leaned back against the wall and thought while Aragorn kicked at the ground again, apparently in hopes of stirring something up.  “I think it was you—I’m usually very popular.”

“Me?” Again he laughed and then louder, more amused. “Popular? —You’re a boor, an uncivilized brute. I don’t believe it.”

Éomer snorted his contempt for the names. “You were rude and now,” He sighed mournfully, folding his arms, “I go home cold and unloved.”

“I was rude?” Fixating upon the word, Aragorn seemed offended. He switched the torch to his other hand as he frowned. “I am not rude.”

Ah, here we go Éomer perked up; he answered deliberately casually. “You were.”

            “Not. I was not.”

            “You refused to pay for the broken mug.” He smiled, and waited.  Here was some entertainment at last.

            Aragorn gaped at him before waving his hand, “Which you broke—you!”

            “To help you.”

            “Still, you broke it—I paid for everything!”

            “You’re King.” Éomer shrugged, maintaining his most innocent expression.  Inside himself he grinned, delighted.

            “You’re a King too!” Aragorn had forgotten about the twig, which was the point.  Now he concentrated on getting him moving, so as to forget about the pipe.  So there will be no possibility I will look like a fool, he thought in silent triumph. 

            “Not of here.”

            Éomer stepped away from the wall as Aragorn sputtered. “What?  What does that have to do with anything?”

              He’d stopped looking at the ground entirely, which was a good start. “It is your city; I’m a guest.”

            “Guest. A guest.”

            Judging by Aragorn’s face he’d managed to both perplex and infuriate him.  Excellent, now let’s move, Éomer thought as he walked to stand near the King, poised to stride into the corridor. “Yes.”  He took a step away, hoping Aragorn would just naturally follow.

            Instead he frowned, “Wait, where are you going? I have to—” For a hopeful moment he looked confused and then to Éomer’s despair he finished, “I have to find something to light this with.” 

Damn, he swore inwardly as he returned to his spot on the wall.  “Hurry up.”

Several minutes of watching the man poke at the ground and walk back and forth later, he didn’t mean to annoy, really, it was just he was so utterly, completely bored. “Now? Have you found something now?” 

            The King abruptly straightened and his voice was triumphant. “Yes!”  In his hand was a tiny twig.  Éomer stepped away from the wall, defeated as Aragorn held the wee bit of wood to the wavering flame.  It caught and he hurriedly dropped the torch and held the burning twig over his pipe, cupping it in his hands and puffing.  After a moment a small cloud of smoke rolled up and he grinned. “Here.”

            Éomer looked at the pipe as it was extended and made himself take it.  However, he was unable to keep the look of distaste off of his face as he prepared to put the chewed stem to his lips.  Disgusting.     

***

            “Promise me you won’t laugh…” he began, then jested to take away his tension, “I’m very sensitive, you know.”

            “I won’t.” Éowyn removed her hand from his shoulder, then Move, she commanded.

            Where? He took his arm from off of her waist, lifting the blankets, too.

            Back like this.  Under his arm, she rolled back over to face away from him and he curled around her backside. Faramir smoothed her hair down out of his way, and rested his hand on her stomach.  “Better?”  Unlike before, there was no unease when he moved his hand up a little to a more comfortable position, or when he wiggled one foot between hers.  Éowyn had finally relaxed with him in her bed.

            “Yes,” He heard her smile as she said, “whisper it in my ear.”

            “All right.” It took him a moment to mentally compose it; he reviewed it, still finding it rough and poor and he wavered.  Maybe I should wait… 

            “Faramir, just go.”  She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his against her stomach.  It was a surprising gesture of support and he reached to kiss her shoulder in gratitude.  “I won’t laugh, I swear.”

            “All right.” Faramir took a deep breath to steady himself, then murmured into her ear.

I see—

gold, shimmering like scales, like fish, trapped. 

Leather that belies the blush.

Cold mail that denies the maiden’s touch.

She’s not looking at me; I’m unwanted.

Shield, spear, blade she carries, but not love.

I speak; she doesn’t hear.

I extend a hand, an arm; an offer she doesn’t take.

Wind and her hair is gold shimmering;

her eyes are sapphire and her shape makes me wonder,

is there a woman here I can make

or will she…my heart break?

            He held still, waiting tensely. Usually he hated speaking his verses before he’d perfected them.  Éowyn breathed in and out and he felt her hand go around the stone dolphin, but she said nothing and he began impatiently moving his fingers against hers to try and goad her.  His idea met without any success and Faramir waited nervously.  It was only a few more seconds, but it still seemed an eternity before Éowyn turned her head to look him in the eyes. Faramir asked, stammering, “Well--well, what did you think? I mean, it’s not finished and I know, it, I mean it could be better…”

She smiled at him, mercifully ending his tongue-tied stuttering, then with a small laugh that was almost embarrassed, Éowyn said, “It’s wonderful.” Her thumb rubbed over his knuckles as her eyelids lowered, and she glanced away, licking her lips, “I—I love it.”

            Relieved to the core, he relaxed and teased “You just say that because it’s about you.”

“No, no.  I do.”  Something was wrong, he could feel it like a darkness growing in the pit of his stomach.  Faramir frowned, leaning his chin against her shoulder as she turned back away.  Éowyn was silent and he gently touched her mind, astonished to find she was near despair.  Her hand clenched his, feeling his hesitant questing; she took a sharp breath and let him in.  At once he sat up, looking down in concern.

What’s wrong love?

 It grew ever easier to hear and receive her thoughts. I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I am so cold to you when you’re so good to me.

“Oh, no, shh.” Faramir lay back down, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist, holding her the best he could. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, and then to the warm skin bared at the neckline, jesting in sheer desperation.  “No more poetry, I swear—don’t,” She sucked in a shuddering breath and Faramir rushed, “Don’t cry…I’ll—I’ll ride sidesaddle, I’ll let you braid my hair, I’ll make you a fancy tart or something—anything.”

It was a wavering moment before Éowyn weakly asked, “Cherry?”

Utterly relieved, he leaned his forehead against her shoulder. “If you want.”  There was silence in which she held his hand and he squeezed her fingers.  Faramir sensed her weariness and became aware of his own. He glanced over her shoulder at the window, noting the position of the stars.  It was late or early, depending how one looked at it.

“You want to go to sleep?”

Éowyn sighed, shifting under his arm. “Yes.”

“All right.” Faramir slid closer, wanting to feel her against him.  “Goodnight kiss?”  She turned her head, wearing a small smile and he raised up to kiss her.  Éowyn’s lips were cooperative, slightly parted and soft for him; she wasn’t cold any longer—he’d succeeded in warming her. Giving her hand one last squeeze, he settled behind her shoulder and Faramir closed his eyes, at ease.   

***

Aragorn picked his torch back up; watching him expectantly as Éomer held the pipe.  It was narrow, long stemmed and awkward in his hand; he eyed it uncertainly, fearing he would drop the thing.

“Sometime before it goes out.” He arched an eyebrow, grinning as Éomer put it to his mouth again. Under Aragorn’s watchful gaze he carefully inhaled, absently noting the way the small embers flared red in the pipe’s bowl before the smoke hit his lungs.  It was hot and unmistakably not air—his lungs refused it and Éomer choked. 

“Gah!” It was awful and he blew it out immediately, grimacing at the bitter flavor coating his tongue and throat.  Odd, the smoke smelled sweet, yet this—this is horrid, Éomer thought.  He spat onto the ground, trying to rid himself of the taste.

Aragorn laughed at him and he would glower if he weren’t so busy spitting. “Everyone does that.”

“How,” Éomer looked at the innocent pipe in disgust, “How can you enjoy that?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” He grinned, the torchlight flickering over his face. “There’s an art to it.”

“It’s disgusting.” There was a tiny bit of thick white smoke coming up from the bowl.

Aragorn waved at the pipe. “Try it again before it goes out.”

“No.”

“It’s better the second time.  Try to inhale slowly, not too deep.”

Éomer shook his head in refusal. “It tastes terrible.”

“Coward—it’s not that bad.” Aragorn grinned again. “I suppose you just can’t handle—”

“Fine!”  He put it to his mouth, attempting to follow directions, but it was still bad.  He coughed deep and hoarse, unable to really get much before his lungs rejected it.  The taste of the smoke was forever tattooed upon his tongue—Éomer spat again as soon as he’d exhaled.  “You like this?”

“I told you, it’s an art.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Well, here, let me have it.” He gratefully handed it over and watched as Aragorn smoked easily, gripping the pipe stem between his teeth and then blew a perfect smoke ring.

            “Ugh.” Éomer spat again, but it was hopeless.  He doubted even ale would kill this horrid taste.

Now they walked, moving aimlessly through the dark corridors. “It’s not fair.” Aragorn eventually said, his words slightly muffled through the pipe.

“What’s not?”

“That the hobbits—Merry and Pippin, no less—used Shadowfax.  I could use him; I mean, he’d do it for love, you think?”

“Do what?” Éomer considered licking something in hopes of getting rid of the taste.  But what?  He only came up with the wall, his hand or his boot.  None were appealing.

“Carry me to intercept Arwen so I don’t have to wait so long; what the hell did they steal him for anyway?”

He looked at his hand; it was by far the best choice. “Weeds; sacks of plants or something.  That’s all Éowyn was carrying.”  Aragorn halted so quickly Eomer was two steps ahead before he noticed. “What?”

It was rapid and confusingly elated. “Weeds you sure?”

“That’s what if felt like.”  Éomer stuck his fingers in his mouth.  They tasted of ale and dirt?  I don’t know.  Better than pipe-weed, he reasoned.  Sucking them, he added, “A bunch of stems that... poked me...” He jerked his fingers out of his mouth with a grimace as he hit a new taste; all right, maybe not better.  Éomer wiped them on his trousers, moving his tongue and lips in disgust.  I will never be rid of it.

“You think Éowyn still has it?  The sacks of weeds?” Aragorn seemed excited for some reason.

“Probably.”  He shrugged, uncaring.

Aragorn’s eyes lit up alarmingly and he eagerly commanded, “Come on, take me to her room.”

“No! It’s too late.  She’s asleep.”  She’ll be mad at me he added to himself and blinked in surprise when Aragorn promptly proposed,

“Listen, she won’t be mad—I’m a ranger, I’m quiet, I’ll never even wake her.”

“No.” Éomer was not allowing this foolishness. “You’ll get it tomorrow.  Or I suppose, now, in a few hours.”

“But, the hobbits, they could have it by then.”

“So?”

“So—don’t you get it?  They found pipe-weed—they don’t, won’t share!” Aragorn hissed impatiently and then, his tone wheedling, he virtually begged.  “Come on, Éomer, you don’t like it but I do and…I’m running low!”

Éowyn shouting at him and then weeping earlier came to mind and he hardened his heart. “So?”

“So…” Aragorn couldn’t think of anything; he frowned, his tone trying for imploring and edging into outright begging. “Please?”

Damn, look at him.  It was pathetic and he wavered. “You won’t wake her?”

Again he lit up. “No, no.”

“I don’t know.” He weighed his sister’s anger against his friend’s increasingly pitiful expression.  He looks like a kicked dog, Éomer thought, impressed and then with huge amusement, the student learns quickly.  Frankly he hadn’t expected this level of manipulation from the straight-laced Aragorn and he was unprepared to defend himself.  Sighing, he gave in.  “Yes—but if you wake her...” A delighted grin was his reward. “I won’t be there to save you.” Aragorn nodded, following him.  Éomer sighed as he took the torch. They were far, but not too far, perhaps ten minutes distance.

***

Éowyn lay silently.  She was listening to Faramir’s breathing deepen and sensing his mind slowly quieting. He was almost fully asleep and she envied him.  I can’t sleep, she thought, staring at the stars through the open window. She closed her eyes in determination, but opened them again within seconds.  I’m so tired and yet…there was a great, cumbersome man in her bed.  His presence alone, even fairly trusted and loved, kept her awake.  The bed sloped gently under his heavier weight, making it impossible to move away.  Even if I could, she thought in irritation. 

 Damn it, damn everything; his arm was back on her.  Éowyn gritted her teeth and turned to carefully lift it away.  She placed it on his side, as she’d already done twice, but a few seconds later Faramir stirred, murmuring something incomprehensible and it was wrapped tightly around her waist again.   Grinding her jaw in silent frustration, she resumed staring at the stars. Éowyn couldn’t even throw off the blankets to cool herself because his big, dumb leg is over mine.  His arm was heavy around her, pressing her stomach in; it hadn’t weighed nearly this much when he was awake, she was sure.  Her entire body was boiling—from her neck to her ankles Faramir was pressed against her and even worse, draped over her—Éowyn was burning alive.  She remembered being cold fondly and with longing.  Faramir breathed on her neck; it was hot and she tried not to slap at him.

  How can he sleep like this?  It’s stifling! Éowyn felt his hand move on her stomach and behind her he unconsciously moved closer.  How many women has he held like this to be so comfortable?  It was the first time it had occurred to her and the thought was disturbing. She hadn’t seen any in his mind, yet she hadn’t seen a great many things.  All the images, voices and thoughts had been fairly random from different points in his life, at different times.  How many women? She wondered jealously, unable to sleep.  He was deeply gone now; she couldn’t feel anything but the soft and low beat of his nearness.  It was comforting and she closed her eyes again.  A breeze blew across her face; it cooled her a bit.  Perhaps, now…

Suddenly Faramir’s hand slid upward to cup her breast and Éowyn rolled her eyes to the heavens as he stirred again, his mouth now on her shoulder, moving against her skin. Gods, no, just no.  Would he try to…do what? She had no idea…before he awoke?  His fingers did something, almost a combination of a squeeze and a rub.  It felt strange. Nervously she grabbed his arm, moving it back to his side and sent sternly, behave!  If he heard her there was no response.  Éowyn relaxed when he didn’t try to grope her again, knowing he hadn’t meant to.

He did, however, put his arm back over her.  She gritted her teeth, still on fire, sweating lightly and looked at the window.  It’s not long till dawn; I can last.  Faramir shifted closer again and she thought, maybe.

***

Aragorn was practically tripping over his heels and Éomer glared at him.  He didn’t want to wake his sister and even doubted her door would be unbolted.  As they neared the hall her room was in, he spoke, “I’m not going in with you.”

“That’s fine.” Aragorn was still excited.

“If she wakes up you’re on your own.”

“Fine, fine.”

“I mean it.”

“Yes.” It was impatient and Éomer sighed. He wasn’t listening.

“There. That one. Be quiet.”  He pointed to the second door, stopping in the middle of the hallway.  “Be quick.”

             “I will.” Amusingly, Aragorn flipped up his hood and Éomer wondered whatever for.  The King grinned. “Here, hold this.”  He handed him his pipe.  It was still lit, very slightly smoking. 

He grimaced, but took it. “All right.”  As Aragorn walked to the door, his step silent on the stone, Éomer hissed, “Be fast!”  A jerk of the head was his only answer as Aragorn quickly pulled open the door and stepped inside.  I hope he doesn’t wake her, he worried.

***

Éowyn had had enough.  Lifting Faramir’s arm and wiggling from under his leg, she managed to extract herself from the bed.  Panting, she watched warily.  His brow furrowed and his fingers moved to clutch the sheet, but he didn’t awaken.  She sighed in relief, pulling the nightgown away from her sweaty skin.  The cooler night air was unbelievably delightful and she decided she wasn’t staying in that bed.  Sofa, yes, that will be better, she thought, truly sorry to leave him.  Éowyn moved to the door, walking quietly.  There was a tiny bit of curiosity from Faramir, rising up like a mental bubble, but she answered it with reassurance.  I’m not going far.

As Éowyn carefully opened the door to her outer room, cracking it just enough to slip through, she thought I can shut it.   She smiled, her fingers plucked again at the nightgown; I can shut it and take this hot thing off. 

***

Éomer shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously.  At least, he thought, there was no noise.  He was pretty sure his sister would scream at least once if she saw a hooded and cloaked man in her rooms in the middle of the night.  And then he’d run away, because she was already mad at him.  Briefly amused at his own cowardice, he was soon nervous again. 

There was nothing to do but wait.  Anxious to see Aragorn reappear, he fidgeted in the dark corridor, moving the torch back and forth to watch the shadows.  Come on, come on, he pleaded, fingering the pipe.  It he didn’t come out soon he’d have to resort to smoking—at least it was better than futilely staring at his sister’s door.  

***

She closed the door, slowly, ever so slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound.  Éowyn leaned against it, reaching, but Faramir was still asleep.  Thank the gods, she thought, I don’t want to hurt his feelings and moved into the room.  It was slightly warmer in here, the coals of her fire mostly dead but still putting out a bit of heat.  Walking to the window, she silently unlatched it and swung it open.  Suddenly she froze, the skin prickling on the back of her neck—it felt as though someone were watching her.  Éowyn glanced around the shadowy room and irritably dismissed the feeling.  She was acting womanish and silly.  Exasperated at herself, she yanked her nightgown off, tossing it onto the floor without a second thought.  There was no one here to see, after all—she was just being foolish.  Leaning over the windowsill, she let the wind blow over her hot skin, cooling it.  Shivering in delight, Éowyn’s last regrets about leaving the bed disappeared.    

Her weariness came back tenfold and she turned back to the room.  She’d just stretched her arms over her head, yawning wide when there was a low, muffled sound—what was that? she thought in horror.  An electric jolt running through her body, Éowyn’s eyes went wide, darting around.  There was nothing but shadows in the dim starlight and her breath stuck in her throat as she heard more, hastily muffled noises.  Her heart raced and instinctively she crossed her arms across her bare breasts, glancing at her bedroom door.  It was still closed tightly.  Someone is in here and it is not Faramir, she thought in growing fear, insanely aware of her nakedness; it made her sense of vulnerability much worse.

A large shape in the darkness—it rose up from the corner and she trembled.  The wraith, the wraith…oh gods, it’s come back! Her mind wailed in fright as it took a soundless step in her direction.  Éowyn inhaled deep, preparing to scream at least once before the foul thing took her and sensing her intent, it lunged across the room.  She watched, unable to move and frozen in terror as, in the faint starlight, it seemed to fly at her. 

Its cloak made soft flapping sounds, its boots scraping as its hand clamped itself to her mouth, the other awkwardly grabbing her in the dimness—sliding up off her bare hip with a snort of strange laughter? to her waist, then quickly finding her arm. This was no wraith, though—it’s skin was warm and she could hear it breathing.  Éowyn wasn’t sure if she were relieved or not; she thought not as it grappled clumsily, behind her now, arm around her waist as she jerked back.  The man was strong, but recovering slightly from her fear, she bit the hand over her mouth hard enough to taste blood.  There was a yelp of pain from her attacker and triumph replaced the fright in her heart.   Éowyn thrashed in his grip, uncaring of her bareness, biting harder, trying in vain to free herself long enough to scream for Faramir to help—until a familiar voiced hissed,

“Stop, that hurts!  It’s me, dammit, stop biting!”

            It wasn’t the wraith or a strange man—it was much, much worse.  Aragorn—OH GODS, ARAGORN!  Éowyn thought in humiliated horror, going limp against him.  From her bedroom she could feel Faramir come slightly awake with a start, reacting to her gigantic shifts in emotion.  Go…go back to sleep, Faramir...everything is fine.  It was a huge effort to answer him with Aragorn still gripping her from behind, less than inches away while she was—naked, I’m naked!   In the bedroom she felt her awareness of him dim as Faramir went back to sleep.  Aragorn’s bruising hold on her waist loosened, attracting her attention to her immediate surroundings again.

“Be quiet? No screaming?” He asked her tensely, his voice a rough whisper.  Éowyn nodded, feeling herself flush all over to feel him pressed against her backside.  But worse, even in the dim light she knew her body would be clearly visible once he stepped away.  She shivered in humiliation, feeling trapped as slowly, watchfully, he took his hand from her mouth.  Aragorn moved away and his eyes briefly dropped to look at her as Éowyn stood helplessly.  He snickered then, just like a boy, obviously unable to stop himself and she bolted for her nightgown, grabbing it up to hold as a pitiful shield. 

Breathing fast, facing him, she gasped in a whisper, “What? Why? Aragorn?”

He was laughing through his hands, making the same muffled noise that had originally startled her.  He sobered long enough to say, “I’m…I’m really,” Aragorn’s eyes dropped again and she desperately pressed the thin material to her body as he wrenched them up to hers “…sorry.” He finished and helplessly laughed again.

            “What—what,” Éowyn took a deep breath and hissed in fury. “What are you doing here?”

He managed to sober somewhat, his voice low. “What were you doing anyway?  Do you always go about naked?”

“No!” She glared at him, still clutching her nightgown and whispered. “Why are you in here?”

“I came for—” and then what she’d hoped would not happen did; in the other room, Faramir moved, found her not there and awoke. Éowyn stared at Aragorn, wide-eyed as he went on, totally oblivious, “the pipe-weed, of course.”

“What?” It was loud and he shushed her, waving his arms. “What?” She asked again, whispering.

“Éomer’s outside; I told him I would be quiet and not” He chuckled, “wake you.”  In the bedroom there was a rustling noise and the thump of Faramir’s feet hitting the floor. Aragorn didn’t seem to notice. His words penetrated and she fought back a moan.  Not again, not another fight, Éowyn thought.  She glared at Aragorn and as Faramir took a drowsy step toward her bedroom door, pausing to yawn, she hissed in desperation,

“Get out.”

            “Not without the—” and of course he called out to her. Faramir’s voice was thick with sleep,

          “Éowyn?”  Aragorn’s eyes went wide and he fell silent. Nearly giving himself whiplash, he jerked his head, staring at the bedroom door, then back to her.  Éowyn stared back equally as wide-eyed and suddenly, without warning Aragorn burst out in laughter.  He clamped his hand over his mouth, snorting through it as he bent over.  There was a strange mixture between shock and fascination on his face as he whispered, his eyes agog, 

           “He’s in there? He’s in there?”

She answered Faramir in a low voice, feeling herself flush at Aragorn’s amazed and delighted tone. “I’ll be there in a minute; go back to sleep.”  She sensed him hesitating then turn back to flop in the bed; he had never truly awoken.

Abruptly sobering, Aragorn spoke while shaking his head slowly. “I’m very disappointed in the both of you.”

Éowyn made a face. “Oh, be quiet! We did nothing!”

“Do you know how long I’ve waited—” Giving her a look of deep and faked distress (she could still see the glint of amusement in his eye), he continued.  “To bed my—” she was disgusted and she didn’t want to know.  Éowyn glared, hissing,

“Be quiet! I don’t care!” She stared at him, suddenly remembering her nakedness and wondering why he was still there. “And…get out, Aragorn!”

            “Not without the pipe-weed.”  He sounded determined even in a whisper.

“What? No! Get out!”  There was no way he’s getting it, she thought, purely out of spite for really she didn’t care either way.

            “I said—” Aragorn looked in danger of coming closer and she gave up.  Let the hobbits scream!  I want him out, Éowyn thought.

“Oh, fine! Fine!” She pointed to the sofa, hissing. “Take it!”

“Éowyn?” Faramir had reawakened and lost patience with waiting; in her mind’s eye she saw him sit up and rub his face.  My love?  He asked.

“In a moment.” She called desperately, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to alert her brother. Aragorn pointed at her nightgown, struggling not to laugh. 

“Put that back on in case he comes and finds me.”  Éowyn began to lift it, then gave him a look.  Aragorn turned his head obediently, grinning as he did so. “I think it’s a bit late for that—you know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, the elves teach— ”

“I don’t care! You will put the image from your mind. Now.”  She gritted out, furious and straightened the nightgown, struggling into it.  Smoothing the thing down, she felt far better covered.  Gods, it had to be Aragorn, didn’t it? Éowyn thought, feeling her embarrassment heat her cheeks. 

           “All right.”  He snorted laughter, going to the sofa to choose the larger of the two bundles. 

Éowyn watched as he picked it up and looked at her, sensing Faramir rising again and yawning wide as he padded slowly forward. This time he’ll come, she thought. “Get out.  Now.”

Aragorn nodded and moved silently to her door.  He paused, one hand on the knob and whispered in obvious glee.  “Say goodnight to him for me.”

She looked at the ceiling, wishing it had been the wraith and the thing had slain her—it was preferable to the knowledge that the next time Aragorn saw her he would probably be picturing her nude.  Or perhaps worse, thinking she’d made love to Faramir. “Get out, Aragorn.”

He made a long face, the door cracked. “No goodnight for me then?”

Éowyn glared at him, hissing, “Out!”  Aragorn chuckled again, and slipped out her door just as Faramir stumbled into the room. 

“What’re you doing?” He muttered with a frown, blinking blearily at her in the starlight.

She smiled in relief that he hadn’t seen or sensed Aragorn and pointed to the open window. “I was hot.”

Faramir yawned, taking her hand. “Why didn’t you wake me?  Come back, we’ll throw the blankets off.”  Éowyn allowed herself to be led back to bed, wondering if she’d ever get to sleep.

***

Eomer jumped to attention as Aragorn slithered through the cracked door and out of his sister’s room.  Whispering, he asked angrily, “What took you so damn long?  Did you wake her?”

He smiled strangely. “No, I didn’t wake her.” Aragorn held up his prize, one hand oddly tucked back behind his back. “I got it.”

Éomer looked at the dirty, wrinkled sack of weeds in contempt. “Wonderful for you.”

“It is.” Aragorn laughed loudly and he glanced at him in confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

The King grinned widely as they walked away, stuffing one hand deep in his pocket. “Nothing, nothing.”