As Éowyn lay in bed, Faramir asleep and wrapped around her again, the same thought replayed itself over and over in her mind: Aragorn saw me naked, Aragorn saw me naked and eventually she began to giggle.  She laughed soundlessly, first only in small bursts, but then hysterically with her hand clamped to her mouth, her body shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks.  It was horribly embarrassing, true, but it really was no worse than her brother seeing her nude was—Aragorn had no desires, nor intentions of any kind towards her.  The last thing she remembered thinking before she finally fell asleep was, thank the gods it wasn’t one of the hobbits. 

***

         Faramir dreamed; he awoke slowly, his head pillowed on something soft and warm.  Opening his eyes, he realized he was lying on someone, Éowyn, to be precise.  Faramir blinked in weary surprise.  Lifting up slightly, he found he was lying sprawled between her legs, his head lying on her stomach with his arms just below her breasts.  She was asleep, one hand resting on his arm, the other thrown over her head. She wore men’s clothes—they looked like his and he smiled and then he noticed the shirt was unbuttoned, leaving a long handbreadth of bare skin from her neck to where he’d been lying.  The rawhide thong of the necklace he’d given her hung limp around her neck, the dolphin pendant rising and falling with the movements of her breathing, poised in mid-leap against the pale swell of one breast.  A breeze blew a leaf against her bared flesh and he reached out to brush it aside, delighting in her soft skin.  Éowyn stirred, her eyelids fluttering, but didn’t wake.  Faramir gazed at her longingly, his chin on his arm.  He could see fading bite-marks on her breasts and neck, slightly reddened skin from his stubble and her lips were still swollen from his kisses; with a sigh, he wished vehemently that he had come into this dream a bit earlier.

         It took him a few minutes, but finally looking away, he blearily took in his surroundings—the same giant tree that was in every dream, but the rest of the landscape had changed.  There were no walls, no garden, and no buildings, only the tree and multiple markers to signify the positions of future structures. Not yet, he thought, construction hasn’t started yet.   

Propping himself up on his hands, each one planted at her sides, he watched her sleep and wondered impatiently when he would get to this. 

***

            Éomer knocked on the door, glancing at the sky.  It was just beginning to lighten, though the stars were still bright.  There were footsteps and the door opened, revealing several Rohirrim men in various stages of dressing and packing.  “Min Hlaford?”

            “Beoð ge gesunde.” He greeted them, and then turned to one in particular. “Halorl, gesibling, Ic þe axige a mæst þéowhád.”

            He looked curious and willing; Éomer was encouraged as Halorl asked respectfully, “Ac, min Hlaford?”

            “Ábenð se Hordere in eower geþiode, gewuna ond drohtoð gelíce and a cempa-gelíce and miccle ge cunnan.” Halorl looked slightly disappointed, so Éomer quickly reassured him, “Efne hwænne se hwil of se metsung cuman.”

              “Gea, min Hlaford. Ic genǽged.” His aide nodded slowly. 

Relieved, he smiled. “God. Ic þancie þe.”

***

          Éowyn’s eyes opened blurrily to, after what felt like seconds, loud knocking and a male voice calling.  Pale light gleamed in the lower corner of her window, but the rest of the sky still dark and she groaned, burying her head back into the pillow.  Behind her Faramir was still deeply asleep; without the blankets his crowding had been tolerable enough for her to sleep as well. At the loud noise she felt him stir, felt his chest rise to touch against her back as he sighed deeply and murmured something into her neck. The pounding at her door went on and on. “My lady?  My lady it is time to rise!  Min Ides! Sǽl!”

            He’s not going away, you have to answer, she thought and finally lifted her head.  Éowyn licked her dry lips and shouted wearily, “Yes, yes.”  There was blessed silence; delighted, she laid her head back onto the pillow, but only for a second. Faramir’s arm had tightened possessively around her middle at the disturbance and she pried it off. He didn’t move when she put it on his side and, blinking and yawning, she made herself sit up before he replaced his arm.  She forced her eyes open; knowing if she didn’t get up she’d just go back to sleep.  Éowyn felt horrible, her whole body seemed to weigh a ton, especially her eyelids.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, unable for the moment to make herself stand, she said in an exhausted voice, “Faramir, get up.”

            “No.” It was a muffled groan.

            “Yes, get up.” She glanced over at him, but all she could see was his dark, tangled hair and his long body stretched out as he unfolded.  His shirt rode up, exposing his midsection while his trousers had slid down and bunched.  Starting just below the center of his flat stomach, a sparse trail of dark hair led downward and Éowyn found herself gazing at it and wondering curiously.  She’d seen men naked, of course, mostly finding them amusing.   Between her brother and Théodred, plus several of the young Rohirrim soldiers who cared little for modesty in the summer heat, she’d been quite entertained, always wondering how they managed to get around with such crude, awkward bodies. But none had hair of this kind, she thought, and there were none that I wanted to touch.  The wiry strands on his chest had been darker than that of his head and she reached out with one finger to stroke the darkish stuff on his abdomen; it was something he hadn’t let her do earlier.

His stomach twitched and she glanced up quickly, but although he’d turned his head, his eyes were still closed.  Éowyn skimmed her fingers over his skin, running them through the light trail of hair.  It grew thinner and thinner as she went up, finally stopping altogether; further up on his chest she knew there was more, but his shirt hid it.  Still running her hand up his middle, she slid it under his shirt, questing past firm muscle. She lightly pressed his skin, frowning at the easily felt ribs and had just pushed his shirt up a bit when suddenly Faramir’s hand moved to catch her wrist through the cloth.  His voice was raspy with fatigue,

“What’re you doing?” Teasing me at this early hour? Go back to sleep.  Startled and caught, Éowyn looked at Faramir’s face again, but his eyes were still closed.  His hand was warm around her arm, holding her through the shirt.  His fingers moved, rubbing gently.

“Nothing. No.” She scooted closer, turning to face him, and twisted a strand of the hair on his arm between her free fingers.  When there was no response, she smiled in tired amusement and tugged at it.  This earned her a noise and Faramir’s eyelids lifting long enough to frown at her in bewilderment.  Suddenly she looked at him again, this time eyeing his frame—his body was lean, long and his shoulders were less broad—he was sparer than her brother was, and she thought, he would probably fit a little better, not much, but better.  A few things stolen from Éomer were the only men’s clothes she had, and besides the fact that they were filthy from the two days she’d already worn them, they also billowed off of her like sheets in the wind.  Éowyn shook her head; she wasn’t wearing a skirt to travel in, it was ridiculous even to consider.  “Faramir, now, get up.”  She poked him in the stomach. He groaned again, but didn’t move.  Éowyn sighed, “Now, before Éomer decides to come and make sure I’m awake.” 

            That made him open his eyes and Faramir’s head came up with a drowsy start. “What?”

            She yawned, using her free hand pushing her hair out of her face, knowing she should brush it or the snarls would be horrendous by nightfall. Éowyn stared out the window as the sun just began to peep over the horizon. The beginning sunrise was pretty—all red and gold streaks up through the blue-grey clouds.  “Go and get me some of your clothes.”

            “What?” He sat up slowly, his shirt sliding down a bit.  Finally letting her go and scooting back to lean against the headboard, he yawned; his head gently thumped the wall as he wearily leaned it back.   Unruly hair in his eyes, Faramir squinted at her in confusion, “What did you say?”

            “I said go and get me some of your clothes to wear—you’d be a little better fit than my brother.” Éowyn shook her head, looking at him and thinking he was curiously attractive all tousled and disheveled like that, far more than the impeccably attired Prince she’d first seen.  She dangled her legs over the side of the bed, too tired to stand yet.  “You don’t think I’m riding all the way home in a sidesaddle, do you?”

            “I don’t know. No.”  He rubbed his face, blinking and then said determinedly,  “No, you’re not riding home.”  Before she could speak, he grabbed her arm again, pulling her back to him.  Landing with her head resting on his lap, sprawled crossways across the bed, Éowyn almost gave in as Faramir muttered, “I forbid it.”  It was so nice, to lie still with her eyes shut and her cheek pressed against the folds of his clothing…she opened them with a moan.  Pressing her hands to the sheets, she quickly found she couldn’t get up anyhow—he was holding her down.

            “No, I have to. Faramir, let me go.”

            No, Faramir’s inner voice was colored with desperation as he came closer to actual wakefulness and bent his attention on her, strengthening the link between them.

“Yes.” She tried to rise, but his arm clamped down across her with surprising strength and she didn’t have the will to fight.  Éowyn’s eyes closed on their own and she thought, just a moment, only a moment…she reopened them immediately, knowing she’d only fall back asleep. “Yes, let me go.”  The only reply was him tightening his hold.  She sighed and gazed at his face.  His eyes were closed again, his brow was creased, the corners of his mouth tight, and she felt his supplication like a dull rasp grating between them—it tried to wear her down.

Stay, stay. Sleep.  Pushing up again without success, Éowyn thought,

 Faramir, he may come and I don’t want either of you to get hurt—which would happen if he found you here.  I’m not strong enough to stop him.  Please let me go. I know you can hear me.

            Heaving a great sigh, he took his arm away and opened his eyes to look at her as she slowly stood up.  Éowyn stretched, feeling her weary muscles protesting.  In a dull and tired voice, Faramir asked, “What do you want?”

            “You know—shirt, trousers, socks.” She leaned against the bed. “A belt.  I have boots.”

            “All right.”  He pulled his shirt all the way down as he swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. Faramir yawned and stood as she smiled in sudden amusement.  His hair was a crow’s nest; it looked tangled up even worse than hers did.  He scratched his chest and muttered, “I’ll be back soon.”  Éowyn nodded, watching him walk out.  Through the opened bedroom door she saw him bend to pick up his boots, shoving his feet in them and grabbing his tunic before leaving her rooms entirely.  At the soft clunk of her door shutting she felt his mind slowly fade in intensity and thought, I could lay down a bit while I wait. 

***

            Stumbling wearily through the hallway, he saw Aragorn, who grinned at him.  Faramir frowned, thinking he looks like he’s been in another fight.  There were indeed more bruises and scrapes on Aragorn’s face, but he appeared quite cheerful, calling out, 

            “Good morning, Faramir.”

            He answered politely, though he would have rather not. This was no good morning for him. “Good morning.”

            Aragorn’s grin widened as he paused. “You look tired.”

            “Oh?” Faramir fought back another yawn. He felt as though he hadn’t slept at all.

            “Yes.” With that puzzling exchange, Aragorn continued on his way and so did Faramir, mentally prompting himself as he walked.  She wanted, what? Socks, pants, shirt and a belt. Right.

***

            Éowyn jumped when she heard the knock.  She’d lain back down to wait for Faramir and fallen asleep.  Wishing she had a robe or something, she moved to the door and opened it a crack, expecting Éomer.  When she saw who it really was, she sighed, already flushing in embarrassment. “What do you want?”

            Aragorn leaned against the doorway grinning, although he looked just as weary as she felt. “You look tired, did he keep you up all night?”  When she frowned, he shoved his foot in the door, preventing her from closing it. “What, what?  I have to want something?”

            Feeling spiteful, she snapped, “Yes.”

            He didn’t look any less cheerful, saying, “Well, in that case, I wanted to see you—you’re leaving soon and I’ll miss you.” He pushed against the door. “Can I come in?”

            She didn’t believe him for a moment, however there was no argument, irrational, rational or otherwise that she could come up with at this early hour to bar him.  “I suppose.” Éowyn gave in, inwardly cursing him and stepped back, allowing him to enter. 

            Immediately he eyed her, and in an almost disappointed voice, Aragorn sighed, “Oh, you’re dressed.”

            She felt herself blush slightly and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, I am.”

            He walked fully in, glancing at the bedroom and then back at her.  Aragorn’s voice lowered conspiratorially, “He’s not still here, is he?”

            Again she blushed; he was so thrilled looking it embarrassed her further. “No.”

            “I know.” He grinned as he turned in a small circle, taking in her room; his voice was nonchalant. “I passed him in the hallway.”

            “Then why—” Éowyn glared as he cut her off with a chuckle.

            “To see if you would blush.”  And damned if she hadn’t.  Hating him, she watched Aragorn look around and then smile widely and mischievously at her. “Did you tell him?”

            “No.” Again she cursed him inwardly. Let me be!

            “That’s probably for the best—” Anxiously, she followed as he wandered into her bedroom, looking at everything. “It might have gotten awkward, you know.”  What? Éowyn thought, awkward?  What is he talking about?  What is he doing?  Aragorn had stopped at her bed and he was smirking in a way that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. He gestured at the blankets that were tossed to the floor, “Rough night?”

            Horribly embarrassed, she stammered, “No! Arag—be quiet!”

He laughed, delighted at her and pointed at the bed. “Which side did he sleep on?”

            Even further appalled, she sputtered, “Aragorn—what?  Why—why do you care?”

            “Éowyn,” He held one hand to his chest, looking dismayed, “I have always cared.” Suddenly he grinned, “So which side?”

            “I’m not answering that—”

He laughed, “Right or left?”  Staring up at her ceiling, Éowyn knew she must be bright red this time as she finally responded,

“Neither.” Still not meeting his gaze, she sighed in frustration. “He slept an inch away from wherever I was.”

“Ah.” Aragorn sat on her bed and swung his legs out in front of him; he grabbed a pillow and stuck it behind his head, getting comfortable.  Gods, what is he doing? She wondered. Where is Faramir? He raised an eyebrow, looking at her. “Aren’t you going to get ready?”

She turned to her dresser. His legs and middle were visible in the mirror and she directed her reply to them,  “Faramir’s bringing me some of his clothes to wear today; with anything else I can steal of Éomer’s, I’ll have enough for the journey.”

Aragorn yawned, “That’s nice of him—a skirt would be rather,” He crossed one leg over the other, obviously settling in, “inconvenient for such a long way.”

“Yes.” She looked for her brush, wondering where Faramir had set it and wishing he were here to do it for her.  It was so nice, last night. Éowyn smiled fondly to herself, he was far gentler than I...even with all the knots and tangles he didn’t pull once.

            “All—” he yawned again, putting one arm over his face, “All packed then?” Éowyn laughed in genuine amusement, looking back at Aragorn.

            “Pack what?” She waved an arm around her room. “All I really have are those horrid dresses they brought me—I’m leaving them here, by the way—a filthy pair of Éomer’s clothes, my hairbrush,” She plucked at the front of her nightgown, “this, and the little flowers Merry gave me.”

            He sounded disconcerted though she couldn’t see his expression, “Well, I suppose you’re quite ready to go.”

            Éowyn looked at her self in the mirror.  “No. I need to brush my hair, and I’ll probably braid it or something to keep it back.”  Finally spotting it, she picked up the hairbrush and had just begun to pull it laboriously through her tangled mane when, in a voice far softer than anything she’d ever heard him use, Aragorn asked her, almost timid sounding.

“Do me a favor?”

            Suspicious, she paused in her task and turned her head, “What?”

            “Hum while you do it?”  He didn’t move his arm, so she couldn’t see his face, but Aragorn’ tone was almost pleading, “So I can…I can pretend that—?” He really didn’t need to finish—it was all in his voice—sad and beseeching.

            Éowyn swallowed and turned back to the mirror.  She raised the brush, murmuring. “All right.”  Beginning to brush her hair again, she heard him sigh.  Her heart melancholy, she hummed softly along to her strokes.

            After a moment, he spoke. “Thank you.”    

***

            Faramir, after getting dressed in fresh clothes and tossing the ones he’d slept in to the floor, stared into his wardrobe looking for something for Éowyn to wear. Several minutes passed, but he only sat on the end of his bed and gazed dully into the wooden chest.  His choice was hindered by the fact that he didn’t want to choose something—it would only aid her in leaving him.  Why does she have to?  It’s not fair.  He was aware of the childish tone of his thoughts and became disgusted at himself.  Valar, I am a man, not a lovesick boy.  I can live for a while.  Sighing deeply, Faramir finally grabbed up a blue shirt he could picture as quite flattering on her, a nondescript pair of pants and some socks.  Wait, wait.  There was something else.  Frowning, he paused in his outer room, looking down at his armful of clothing.  What else did she want?  Faramir couldn’t remember, so he just shrugged and began walking back to Éowyn’s room. 

            The halls were mostly empty with only a few servants to gaze curiously at him as he traveled back.  It was not an especially great distance, luckily, and he was soon at her door.  Not bothering to knock since he was expected Faramir pushed it open awkwardly; the heavy wooden door resisted his efforts to slip through with only one hand to push but he made it.  Using his foot to help close it, he began to call out and stopped to listen.  Éowyn was humming—it was a low and pleasant sound that drew him.  His footsteps silent on the floor, Faramir entered her bedroom, smiling at her, about to speak and stopped short. 

            “Am I interrupting something?”  He stared down at Aragorn, the last person he’d expected to find sprawled in her bed. He’s in my spot.  The man sighed and took his arm away from his face to frown up at him.

            “Yes.”

            “Not really.” Éowyn was quick to disagree.  Aragorn sat up, looking at him curiously and appearing not to notice that he was scowling.  You’re taking my valuable time away, Faramir thought in irritation; I could have my arm around her waist, kissing her right now—even if and when she pushed me away, it would still have been preferable to standing with these clothes in my arms, looking like an idiot.  

            Aragorn nodded at the clothes. “What’d you bring her?”

            Why do you care?  Why are you here? His annoyance mounted, but he kept his voice polite—Aragorn was his lord, after all. “This.” Faramir dropped them on the foot of her bed, turning away to watch Éowyn run her brush through her hair one last time.  She began picking up a thin leather thong to tie it back into one long pigtail but then stopped and began to braid her hair instead.  Faramir was fascinated at how quickly and easily she did it—from behind and without looking.  I could never do that.

            Finished, Éowyn ran her hand over the long braid repeatedly to check it, and then as she was apparently satisfied, she set down her brush and faced them.  Spotting the clothes he’d brought her, she picked up the shirt and gave him and Aragorn a look.  “Out, both of you.”

            Faramir nodded, reluctant but obedient. If they’d been alone he might have teased her for a while to fluster her more than anything, but of course…he shook his head in disappointed irritation.  He’d begun to turn when Aragorn sighed, “Why do I have to go? I’m very comfortable.”

            Éowyn looked suddenly uneasy, “I said get out.”

            Faramir was confused at the chuckled reply, “There’s no point anymore and you know it.”

            “You don’t—I’m not…” She rolled her eyes, fingers tugging on the dolphin pendant; he could feel her frustration and embarrassment?  Why is she so embarrassed?  Faramir didn’t have time to try and find out because she immediately snapped back, “I don’t care, Aragorn, you’re not staying—get up and go!”

            Warily, he glanced at the grinning man on the bed. A sense of merriment practically oozed from Aragorn’s mind, while Éowyn felt distinctly uncomfortable. Concerned, Faramir asked, “What are you two talking about?”

            “Do you want to tell him or shall we,” Aragorn snickered, “let him find out on his own? I warn you though, he’ll be jealous. I would.”

            “Jealous of what?” He looked at Éowyn, who staring at the floor.  “What is he talking about?”

            There was no answer from her.  Aragorn was silent, wearing a smile, his arms folded behind his head.  Abruptly she burst out, “Oh, this is so damn ridiculous!”

            “What?” He touched her mind, reassuring at the same time he sought the source of her distress. Éowyn?  You can tell me anything. “What’s ridiculous?”

            “Aragorn—”she looked at the ceiling, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hand clasped around her necklace.  Her embarrassment grew and he waited until she blurted, “Aragorn saw me naked.”

            Faramir frowned; he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “Pardon me?”

            There was a snicker from the bed, as Éowyn looked him in the eye. “Aragorn saw me naked—completely naked.”

            “When?” I was here the entire time, wasn’t I, except for a few minutes just now?  “How could he have seen—have caught a glimpse—” Aragorn interrupted with a loud burst of laughter.

            “You only wish I’d caught a peek or two.” He grinned as Éowyn went red. “How long was it that you were walking around until you put that back on?  Ten seconds? More? Probably more.”

            Inwardly Faramir counted.  One… two… three… four… He got that far before he exploded in outrage. “Ten seconds! More? Completely naked?”

            Éowyn sighed. “I didn’t know he was there.” She glared at Aragorn, crossing her arms over her front. “Believe me.”

            Faramir did, he knew well she wouldn’t have run about nude in front of an audience; furious, he focused on his next question. “When?”

            “Last night—I was hot, remember?  I opened the window and took this,” She plucked at the hem of her nightgown, “off. You were asleep and I didn’t expect him to be hiding in my room.”

            “Why were you in there?”  He directed this to the cheery-looking Aragorn, completely enraged.  It is not fair, who knows when she’ll let me see her naked, I can’t even get her to kiss me back half the time…damn him! I am supposed to be the only one!    

            “Pipe-weed.”  It was matter of fact. “I was stealing it.” Aragorn added off-handedly, “It’s interesting, I had a more appropriate reason to be there than you.”  He lifted one hand, grimacing as he flexed it. “She actually bit me, you know.  Still hurts.”

            Faramir gritted his teeth, not liking where this was going. “You bit him?”

            Éowyn flushed. “He jumped out of the shadows and grabbed me.”

            “You…grabbed… her?” He was appalled, stammering; “You, you grabbed her while…”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Aragorn grinned; looking pleased with Faramir’s reaction. “Nightgown on the floor. Nothing but the necklace, which, by the way, is nice. Did you give it to her?”  He chuckled and Faramir stared at him, incensed. Éowyn had been right—the entire thing was ridiculous. So ridiculous I might kill him. Flabbergasted and furiously jealous, Faramir did the only thing he could think of.  He pointed at her and ordered,

“Take that off right now.”

            He could feel her shock and her arms tightened defensively around her middle, as she objected, “No!”

            Jerking his head at Aragorn, he snapped another order, “You, out!” Éowyn looked horrified, as he demanded again, stepping toward her and gesturing, “Take it off.”

            Her eyes wide with dismay and anger at his imperious tone, she cried, “No, I won’t!”

            Faramir glared at Aragorn, wanting him out.  Leisurely uncrossing his legs and swinging them over the side of the bed, he sighed at Éowyn, “I told you he’d be jealous.” 

            She hissed back, echoing Faramir’s thoughts—he’d rather have been ignorant, “Why’d you have to bring it up?”

            He shrugged, looking innocent. “I told you I was comfortable. I didn’t want to get up.”

            Éowyn snapped at him, “Comfortable?” She stared, incredulous, then ordered, “Go! Now!”

            “Fine, fine.” Aragorn stood and stretched then walked past him to the door. Faramir watched, hardly able to stay himself until he had gone. “See you at breakfast?”

            “Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as he left, sounding exasperated.

            He gazed at her expectantly. Éowyn smoothed the shirt on the bed and looked at the pants, ignoring him.  Finally, Faramir sighed, “Well?”

            “Well what?” She frowned, feigning naiveté. “You didn’t bring the belt.”

            “The belt?” That’s what it was I forgot. He looked at her once more, but frowned himself, his words dying unspoken.  She felt slightly distressed and angry; she was waiting for him to command her to get nude again and preparing herself for a quarrel.  Damn Aragorn, he thought.  I don’t want to argue. This is absurd. Fine, fine, I’ll behave myself.  I can wait, can’t I? Faramir sighed again, thinking, aye, but for how long? “Do you want me to go and get it?”

            Éowyn relaxed. “No, it’s all right.” She hesitated, fingers fiddling with the buttons on the shirt, “Leave for a moment?”

            He smiled at her, trying to show his acceptance of her shyness with a tease. “Only if you want me to—I can be helpful—” He glanced down at her hand on the shirt. “I can do up the buttons.”

            “One handed?” She relaxed further, mentally as well as physically, a small smile on her lips. Faramir even felt himself calming as the irregular press of her anxiety faded. It wasn’t as if he were angry with her anyway, she hadn’t known Aragorn was there.  I can’t really be angry with him, either, can I? He wondered and then his jealously took over. Yes, yes I can.  Éowyn had her head tilted slightly, as though she were listening.  She asked him, teasing, “How are you going to help like that?”

            “I could use my teeth.” He was only partially jesting.  

            Éowyn laughed, turning her head to smile as if she thought he was silly, then gave him a tolerant look. “Yes, I want you to.”

            Faramir grinned and waggled his jaw playfully at her. “Use my teeth?”

            “No!” She laughed again.  He could feel her relief that he was no longer angered as she shooed him with her hands, “Go, go so I can get dressed and get something to eat.”

            “All right.” He sighed heavily, as though he were terribly disappointed and walked back through her bedroom door.  Éowyn shut it behind him and he glanced back at the keyhole, and then shook his head.  It’s too small, I think. Besides, that’s rather beneath me—I’m not so desperate yet.  Faramir slumped tiredly down on her little sofa, careful not to sit on the last sack of pipe-weed. Stretching his legs out and folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes, feeling his weariness. 

***

            Éomer glowered at his eggs and stabbed them vigorously.  They were good, that was not the problem.  The problem was that he couldn’t get away from this place fast enough and his sister had yet to make an appearance. I wish to go home, he thought impatiently, if I don’t see her soon I will have to go and get her. It would be a long journey, but one he was eager to begin. It has been too long since I saw Meduseld gleaming in the sun. A spark of unease arose in his heart as he chewed his breakfast. This time it will be I in the high seat. Gods, what will I do all day cooped up in the throne room? Éowyn will have more freedom to leave than I will!  What do Kings do?  I never paid much attention—that was Théodred’s charge, not mine…and yet through fate, it is now.  At least I don’t have to attend a foolish Council, only speak regularly with the Marshals, the Master of Horse…

His thoughts were broken at a clunk and thump of some bit of food falling to the floor.  Metal and dishes clinked clumsily; across the table from him sat four hobbits perched on their chairs, each eating something with their eyes half-closed. Legolas had been in briefly, his elven eyes bright and entirely unwearied—he’d made Éomer feel exhausted. It was early for them, he supposed, watching Pippin sluggishly lick jam from his palm. Merry stared at the floor, looking despondent and Éomer wearily speculated on what he’d lost. Bread, egg, ham, cheese or all four at once? The possibilities on a hobbit plate were nearly endless.  Frodo buttered some toast, his movements just as slow as Sam’s, who was eating a piece of what appeared to be sausage. Éomer wondered where he’d gotten it, envious. Suddenly he heard footsteps and straightened in hope, looking at the doorway, but it was only Aragorn.   

            The King looked tired, his eyes blood-shot.  And he should have, like Éomer he’d never gone to sleep. His chair creaked as he sat heavily and servants bustled in, bringing him a plate and a drink. When they’d left, the hobbits murmured things that might have been greetings then bent their heads back to their meals. Éomer felt he should say something just to be polite, although he’d really only hadn’t seen the man in about an hour. “Good morning.”

            “Mmph.” Aragorn had a mouthful of food.  He chewed, bleary-eyed and uncommunicative for a man who’d been arguing heatedly with him about two hours before.

Well. He looked back at the doorway, hoping to see Éowyn appear in it and Aragorn caught his gaze.  He swallowed and spoke, seeming to perk up slightly.

            “She’s coming, I just saw her a minute ago.”

            “Good.” Wonderful, perhaps we can leave on time. He returned to his meal, this time more light-hearted.

***

            Faramir started awake when Éowyn stepped out of her bedroom, embarrassed to have found he’d fallen asleep in such a short time.  She carried with her a small knapsack and was busy stuffing some dirty clothing into it as she moved, glancing around the room.   He frowned, “Is that all you have?”  What about the gowns?

            “Yes.” She added quietly, not looking at him, “I didn’t bring anything—it wasn’t like I expected to be wearing anything besides a helm and armor.”

            He didn’t want to think about that, so he quickly changed the subject, though, he didn’t really like the new one either. “Ready to go then?”

            She carefully wrapped Merry’s flowers in her nightgown and placed them in the knapsack. “Yes, yes I am.” Faramir rose, feeling his exhaustion pulling at him.  Éowyn looked beautiful in his shirt, the blue bringing out her eyes. He told her so and she smiled, ducking her head as though embarrassed. He was surprised and pleased as she moved beside him willingly, taking his arm with a light tug and saying, “Come, I’m hungry.”

            As they entered the hall, he asked, mainly to be polite since he doubted it was any burden, “Let me carry that for you?”

            Éowyn smiled again, handing him the bag. “If you want.”

            It was light and he despaired even as he took it. I don’t want you to leave, he thought sadly.

***

            Éomer looked up again at the sound of footsteps.  This time he was pleased to see it was Éowyn, though less delighted to see she had Faramir in tow. Merry swallowed a mouthful hastily, beaming up. “Morning.”

“Good,” After a large yawn for a small hobbit Pippin finished, “morning.” Frodo and Sam followed suit as Éomer scrutinized his sister. She looks tired. What is she wearing?  Those don’t look like anything of mine.  He frowned, and then wondered immediately, what is that around her neck? However, all he said was,

“Good morning, sister.” Unable to help himself at the weariness in her eyes, he added, “You look tired.” Immediately there was a chuckle from his left—Aragorn. Éomer glanced at him, puzzled as to how the statement could be amusing.

            “A little.” She rather coolly allowed and her eyes flicked to his side to give the King a scathing glance.

            She’s still mad. This will be a long ride.  Nervously, he asked, “You didn’t stay up all night did you?” What he really meant, and was not entirely able to keep from his voice, was He didn’t keep you up all night, did he?  Confusingly, Aragorn chuckled a second time and Éomer wondered what was so damn funny. The hobbits ate, ignoring them all in favor of the food.

            “No.” Again it was rather cool and he fretted.  Faramir was silent at her side, holding her bag. He stands there like a damn stump, he thought in exasperation, wishing one or both of them would at least sit or something.  Suddenly he knew a way to gain her approval…if I have the stomach for it. I would prefer to disregard him entirely, something I’m sure would work quite nicely for us both. It was a bit late, since he’d been standing there for a while, but he had to try it.  Éomer grimaced inwardly, then deliberately looked at Faramir, openly acknowledging his presence for the first time. “Good morning, Faramir.” As he’d hoped, Éowyn gave him a far warmer look. Faramir appeared surprised then nodded courteously, if a bit warily.

“To you as well, Éomer.” However, his true reward was his sister smiling at him and almost immediately sitting by his side, leaving Faramir nowhere to sit except by Aragorn or scrunched at the far end by Sam.  Éomer tried not to smirk at the man’s brief expression of irritation. I win Faramir.  She still loves me best. Again servants hastened out and he took the opportunity to take a closer look at Éowyn.  She wore men’s clothes as he’d expected, but they were entirely unfamiliar—a foreign cut and slightly better fitting—and he had the unsettling feeling that they belonged to Faramir.  She always wears mine; she hardly ever borrowed from Théodred even and now she’s wearing his?  The top two buttons were undone and he eyed the rawhide thong around her neck with feverish curiosity. Is that a necklace?  Did he give her that?  What is it?  In the end Faramir chose to sit by Aragorn, though he looked highly displeased, actually glaring at the man and Éomer wondered about that too.

            All were weary and they ate in silence at first; he pretended not to notice when she stole the last of his toast, using his knife to spread jam on it, delighted to have her interacting with him again. Eventually, Merry spoke, “Uh, Éowyn, is the…uh, the stuff we left with you…do you still have it?”

            Frodo and Sam appeared curious, Pippin anxious.  Faramir didn’t even look up, but Éomer listened his sister replied, sounding startled, “It’s in my rooms. Still.”

            “What did you leave with her?” Aragorn asked.  Again, he seemed amused for no discernible reason.  Éomer wondered if the lack of sleep had made him foolish.

            Merry rapidly answered, “Nothing, nothing.”  Pippin was rather wide-eyed as he bit into what looked like a hunk of ham wrapped in a biscuit.

            “Well, it sounds like something...rather important to you...I’m only—”

            Éowyn came bluntly to their rescue, looking down the table at Aragorn. “Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you, I assure you of that.”

            “But—” Confusingly, Aragorn was still pressing the matter.

            “She said it didn’t concern you.” Faramir sounded uncharacteristically short-tempered and Éomer glanced down at him in astonishment. What is with everyone’s mood this morning? That’s my job anyway dammit. Quit stepping on my toes, you bastard —first clothes, now this? I can’t wait to leave you behind.  Faramir’s eyes flicked in his direction as though he’d heard his thoughts, unsettling Éomer and silencing anything he might have said.

            Aragorn sighed, “Fine. Pardon me for being curious.” He looked at Frodo, who was looking at Merry. “I was just curious, that’s all.  It seemed like something important enough to mention...I was only curious...” He trailed off, biting into a piece of fruit.  Éowyn stabbed her fork at her plate as though she was angered, hard and loud enough to make them all jump with the sound but Éomer cared little—it clearly wasn’t directed at him this time.

            After a few seconds Frodo asked, “What did you leave, cousin?”

            The King smiled triumphantly. Merry became nervous. “I’ll tell you later.”

            “When?”  The eldest hobbit was beginning to look suspicious.

            It was Pippin who answered and his words were quick as to the point of tripping over each other. “Later, later, Frodo, this afternoon.”

            The rest of the meal was in silence. Éomer contented himself with his sister’s presence—her anger towards him was gone at least and all he’d had to do was say three words.  I could do that, maybe not everyday, but often enough to please her.  I love her plenty enough to be barely civil to him and, happily, I won’t have to see him again for a long time.  The unsettling thought occurred, the one he’d been pushing away ever since he’d heard of Faramir. What will I do in the great Hall all alone? Éomer stared at his plate, disturbed.  He was no longer hungry.

***

            Faramir stood with Éowyn.  Éomer, standing himself, still blocked her from him, of course, but he was determined not to be separated.  Luckily, because he had no plan, she stepped around her brother, coming to his side.  Her arm slipping around his warmed Faramir, though he didn’t miss the brief flash of irritation from Éomer’s mind.  Aragorn drifted to stand next to Éomer as though he were a shield between them, asking, “Are we going down to the gates now?”   He glanced at Éowyn.  Faramir waited, pained.  Soon, so soon, he thought in anguish. She nodded, quiet, and Éomer answered after her confirmation. 

“Yes.” The hobbits slid from their chairs, Pippin grabbing a last biscuit.  Merry was looking at Éowyn, his small face sad. The hobbits padded up to their circle on their bare feet and Faramir found himself making room for Pippin as he tugged at Éowyn’s sleeve. She leaned down to his level and the dolphin pendant fell out of her shirt. Éomer appeared quite interested in it but said nothing.  Faramir was glad—he did not wish to explain—it was something between him and her alone.

            “What is it, Pippin?” He pressed something into her hand and gave her a smile, saying in his little voice, 

            “For later.” She smiled back, taking the small wrapped item and putting it in her pocket.

“Let’s go.” Aragorn, too, seemed unusually subdued all of the sudden. Faramir could sympathize as he looked at Éowyn. She walked at his side as Aragorn and Éomer led and Faramir was gladdened when she leaned against his shoulder. 

            Concentrating, he glanced at her golden head, and then directed, you will miss me, then? Éowyn missed a step; he must have startled her from her own thoughts. He sensed her discomfort; even this non-physically demonstrative intimacy was slightly unsettling to her.  Perhaps she didn’t feel he needed to hear it, but Faramir felt very different. He did because she’d rejected him multiple times, even lied flat out to his face in an attempt to extract herself from his desire to be with her. Yes, I need to hear it and one other thing, too before she goes, he thought, then softly touched her mind, somewhat lighter this time.  …Éowyn, would you answer me please?

Yes, yes I will miss you.  It had the feel of are you happy now? and he frowned. Her saying it under coercion didn’t make him feel happy at all. He asked another question that was important to him.

Will you speak with me in private before you go? 

She answered with a small sigh, Yes. I will.

Faramir began to ask something else when she murmured into his arm, “Please be quiet—I’m thinking.” This earned him a mystified glance from both men in front of them.  Éowyn didn’t seem to care.

“All right.”  He kept walking, as though everything was perfectly normal, as though his heart were not twisting in sorrow.

As they came exited the second level, Éowyn stopped short and pulled him aside, out of sight down a narrow, dead-end alley between the sides of two buildings.  The hobbits glanced curiously at them, but kept moving.  Faramir asked, his voice low, “What are we doing?”

She leaned back against the grey stone wall, then scooted sideways and hopped up on an empty beer keg. Swinging her legs girlishly, she explained, “You’re getting your talk in private.”

“Oh.” He hesitated then admitted, “I’m not ready, I don’t know what to say.”

Éowyn laughed, and then crooked a finger at him, sliding back down from her perch.  She leaned against it, commanding, “Come here, Faramir.”

Cautiously he approached her and she reached out to grab his shirt, pulling him to stand closer to her than he would have on his own. Éowyn gazed at him seriously with her hands still clenched in fists around his shirt. “Listen closely, I want you to remember this and be able to say it...”

“What is it?” Faramir became aware he was terribly near to her, almost standing on top of her. Éowyn didn’t seem at all troubled as she let go of his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles.  

“It’s a traditional farewell,” A strand of her hair fell on her cheek and she blew it away, “usually the man says it, but since I’m the one leaving…” She smiled at him, teasing. “Now, are you listening?”

He nodded, paying close attention. “Yes.” She opened her mouth, then stopped, eyeing him.

“I don’t want any complaints about goodbye kisses; you get two with this.” Faramir waited as she added with a smirk, “I’ll tell you when.”

“All right.” Éowyn gave him a sharp look, arching her eyebrows, then said,

“Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe,” As she spoke she sobered, almost saddened. “It means, I ask you, don’t worry, my love.” He unconsciously leaned closer when she touched his face gently, pressing his body to hers against the cask.  Her voice was soft as she continued, “Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss. That means, I ask you, no sorrow. Only a kiss.” Faramir stood quietly attentive and she giggled suddenly, “Now you fool.”

“Oh.” Feeling daft, he bent to her. Éowyn’s arms went around his neck, holding him close as he pressed his lips to hers. She can’t leave, she can’t leave, Faramir’s mind protested desperately as she pulled away.  Her hands still twined around him, she murmured,

“Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið.  Giet, a coss tó habban me.” She tightened her arms around his neck, translating, “My desire for your companionship, will warm me till I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.”

 This time he was ready, eagerly moving into her, almost cutting her off. Éowyn seemed surprised at his enthusiasm, but not afraid even as he pressed her back against the keg, wrapping his arm against her waist. To his astonishment and pleasure she kissed him fearlessly, even ardently, parting her lips for his tongue to explore her mouth.  Projecting encouragement to her hesitant and gradually emboldened responses, he put his fingers on her cheek, slowly sliding his hand down her neck to gently cup her breast.  Instantly Éowyn stiffened, tensing.  He felt her falter, felt her anxiety and he kissed her lightly again, murmuring, “It’s all right.”

             After a moment, she relaxed, trusting him and he moved to her neck, trying to remember what she liked.  Suckling her warm skin, he was abruptly tugged—her hand tangled firmly in his hair—over a bit.  “There, Faramir, right…there. Oh, yes.” Éowyn made a surprised and pleased noise as he kissed, swirling his tongue and the sound heated his blood.  Moving his hand from simply cupping her breast, he ran his thumb over her nipple.  This earned him another small, but sharper sound of enjoyment; Éowyn gasped and it hardened immediately.  He circled it slowly at first then faster through the shirt, wishing he had the use of both hands as she moaned, going soft and yielding against him.  At that sound Faramir desperately wanted to take her. Uncaring, right there in the alley, he wanted to push her back on top of the keg, rip off her clothes and have her before she left him. Aroused, he didn’t pull away from kissing her neck even as she pushed his chest and breathlessly objected, “Stop, stop. They’re already at the gate by now, we have to catch up.” 

“No, no...”  Stop? Was she mad?  He nipped at her warm skin, lapping his tongue at the faint red mark he’d made as he pulled gently at her nipples through the light cloth. If I had both hands, I could have unbuttoned this damn shirt, and this could be my teeth, he thought longingly. His fingers rolled the stiff nub, circling it, going from one breast to awkwardly tease the other. Éowyn’s breath caught in her throat, pulse jumping under his mouth, but then she pushed him again, harder, her voice louder.

“Yes…oh…—No, stop, now, please...” Faramir was about to kiss her again, protest or no, when suddenly a door neither of them had seen banged open against the wall. Two burly men came out of the building, carrying an empty wooden keg between them much like the one he’d pressed her against as he lifted his head and she squeaked in surprise.  The men halted, staring at them in bewilderment and Éowyn buried her face against his shirt. Glancing at her, he saw she was laughing soundlessly in embarrassment.  Her cheeks flushed, she slipped around his side and grabbed his hand tightly. “Cymð, Faramir.” Her meaning was plain as she pulled at it to get him moving.  The men were smirking now, waiting until they’d moved to set the cask against the wall and as she led him off Faramir glared back, furious they’d been interrupted.

The sun was a great fiery disc balanced on the horizon when they reached the gates. There the rest of the Fellowship and many of the nobles in Gondor met them to see Éomer and Éowyn away.  Aragorn raised his eyebrows, looking smug as they walked up, Éowyn still holding his hand.  Éomer glanced at him suspiciously. Faramir gazed back levelly, concentrating on Éowyn’s mind.  She felt subdued again and he squeezed her fingers.  Éomer excused himself rather quickly as one of the Rohirrim rode to his side, leading a saddled grey whose ears pricked in recognition of his master.  The man spoke in a low voice, beckoning him to the front of the line and he glanced at Éowyn, saying, “I will have them send your horse back here so you can join me when you’re ready.”

She nodded, giving him a smile. He bowed courteously at the assembled folk and mounted the gelding, turning it to follow the Rohirrim man. Éowyn was left alone. Faramir stood at the end of the line, watching.  This time she got no hugs from Merry and Pippin, only bows and formal farewells from all the hobbits and folk. Aragorn bowed low with a smile, wishing her well, as did Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli—Éowyn looked slightly overwhelmed by their respect as she nodded to them. 

Stepping aside with her, Faramir waited for his second and far more restrained goodbye.  It came much too soon. She looked at him pointedly, “Remember, Ic þe axige, ná cearo. I ask you, no sorrow.”

He smiled faintly, feeling wretched and tried to remember the next line. “Efne a coss, gea?”

Éowyn appeared pleased. “Gea. God, Faramir, god.”

Faramir cupped her chin, pausing to scold, “Don’t forget about me.”

“Na, ge dol mann.” She stood still for his brief and chaste kiss, then translated for him, “No, you foolish man.” Éowyn hesitated, and then murmured almost too low for him to hear, “I love you.”

He swallowed, his throat gone tight with tension. This was the one thing he’d wished to hear from her and yet feared. “You mean it?  You won’t take it back this time?” It would kill me, my love.

She nodded, looking up into his eyes, her voice still small. “I mean it.”

Faramir leaned down to press his forehead to hers. “I love you.” Always and forever, Éowyn.  He opened the link between them, willing her to feel his devotion and anguish at their parting.  She put her hand on the nape of his neck, holding him to her. Both of them breathed roughly as his emotions surged.  There was silent wonder from her and he kissed her cheek, her lips. I told you I loved you. I will miss you everyday until I see you again.

  Faramir… a tear went rolling down her face and Éowyn closed her eyes.

There was the sudden clomping of hooves and a man came, leading the chestnut gelding Faramir had offered for her.  The moment broken, she turned her head and smiled weakly at the horse. “Wes ðu hal, Líeg.”  The gelding’s large brown eyes gazed at her and his nostrils quivered as he reached out to her hand, snuffling in hopes of a treat. 

            “You renamed him already?” Faramir tried to jest; he was presuming it would make him less melancholy.  It didn’t work. He looked at the chestnut he’d offered for her, wishing it wouldn’t carry her away.

            She took the reins from the waiting Rohirrim man; polite, he turned away to give them the illusion of privacy. “No, I just gave him back his name in a proper language. Líeg means flame in Rohirric.”

 “Oh.” He was in pain, handing her knapsack back to her and watching as she tied it to the back of the saddle. A horn blew and Éowyn looked out toward Pelennor.  There was the entirety of the Rohirrim forces, every man and beast able to travel.  The many, many horses milled over the spring grass and Faramir could hear shouts from their riders.  Their departure, he guessed, watching one gelding buck high, would look more like a race than anything. He looked back at the chestnut; he was tossing his small head and pawing.  Líeg’s neck and flanks were already lathered gleaming white with sweat and Faramir was suddenly concerned for her safety.  Will you be all right?  He touched her mind, nervously watching the ranks of mounted men scatter and reform on the field as their horses plunged and reared with eagerness to begin.

“I’ll be fine.” Éowyn felt calm and she smiled at him as though he were foolish to worry so.  “Hold onto him for me?”

                Faramir nodded, firmly grasping the gelding’s bridle. She took a hold of his mane at the withers and bounced twice on her toes before springing easily into the saddle, never once touching the stirrup. Prepared, Éowyn gripped tightly with her knees as Líeg spun. One-handed and unprepared, Faramir barely able to keep him from bolting; he shouted, “Whoa! Whoa.” Putting his weight behind the bit, he finally halted the horse and she shoved her feet into the stirrups. “All right?” He hesitated to let the gelding loose, but she gathered her reins and nodded, crouching in the saddle. Immediately, Líeg came off the ground, trying to bolt and Faramir leaped back as she turned him in a circle, her voice low,

            “Easy, easy, soon, soon lad, wait for me…wait for me.”

            The horns blew again, louder this time in warning and Éowyn looked down at him.  Faramir nodded.  There was really only one more thing to say as Líeg finally stood, his neck arched like a bow, pulling hard against the bit with his jaw champing. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he smiled at her, trying to appear unperturbed. “Good bye.”

            As the Rohirrim swung his horse in to escort her to Éomer at the front of the line, Éowyn gave him the same smile he’d given her—strained and unhappy. “Good bye Faramir.”  She wheeled the chestnut, letting him loose and putting her heels to his sides with sudden violence. Kicking up dirt as his hindquarters surged, his tail snapping, Líeg immediately carried her away.  Faramir was left alone to dust and the sound of hoof beats ringing in his ears.  

***

Éowyn leaned low over Líeg’s neck, his mane whipping at her face while his powerful muscles drove between her knees, moving her forward.  The man who’d come to guide her galloped at her side, keeping his horse between her and the surging masses of riders, protecting her against any runaways.  The riders whooped at the sight of her and Éowyn straightened in her saddle, sitting tall and erect like she should.  Tears were in her eyes and she wiped them, cursing the strong wind.  Líeg’s strides slowed when she tugged lightly at the reins, asking him to check his gait.  At the very front, past which was only the long empty road between here and Meduseld, Éomer was waiting.  He gazed at her, his eyes full of strange emotion as she wiped her face, but his voice was steady, supporting. “Ready sister? Ready to go home?”

“Yes.” Éowyn nodded, “Yes I am.” He smiled at her, happy, and then Éomer raised his arm. Flags flapped in the wind, the white horse already galloping, spears clanged against shields and the horns blew a third time, signaling.  The riders voices rose in yells, and their mounts sprang forward and the horns were deafening, the rich sounds rolling across the length of Pelennor, through the City and into the dawn sky, crying the presence of their masters—here were the Eorlingas, here were the Horse-Lords. 

I am going home, where I belong, Éowyn thought in bittersweet happiness as Líeg catapulted her forward once more.  She felt the little stone dolphin thump against her skin and she dropped her reins, allowing the chestnut full freedom. Run, she screamed in her mind. Run damn you, run… Inside her she felt, what had, since he’d first touched her thoughts, become so much a part of her, she’d forgotten it was even there, slowly begin to fade.  Éowyn rammed her heels into Líeg’s sides, and he stretched out, hooves pounding the ground, obeying her savage desire for speed.  Faramir’s presence in her heart was slipping away with each iron-shod hoof striking the earth, taking her farther from the city. Surprised at herself, Éowyn clenched her jaw, refusing to sob. It hurts, gods, it hurts to be alone.  Against her will, rebellious tears were on her cheeks and at her side Éomer’s horse breathed into her ear, galloping closely. Go Líeg, she thought, go until I am too tired to feel.

***

Byrga ran strongly beneath him, his grey, black-tipped ears back in annoyance as Éomer kept him close on his sister’s heels. All around him was the overpowering thunder of hooves as the riders allowed their horses to run the edge off, yet he could still hear her breath hitch in her chest.  I only want her to be happy, he thought, feeling miserable.  I will not let her be sad.  Éomer clucked to Byrga, sending him closer as his resolve firmed. I will do whatever it takes for her to be happy.  Yet, even as he thought this, there was, in the back of his mind—if she is happy with him, then I must let her go and how can I live without her? Gods, hear me and grant me strength! 

***

Faramir stood and watched until the riders were no more than a faint smear of dust on the horizon and all the others had left.  Closing his eyes, he reached out mentally, but could feel nothing.  Perhaps if he rose out of himself he could reach her, but other than that he was cut off. And now what shall I do? He wondered. Sit in at the Council? Search all of Ithilien for the tree that is in my dream? Hope for a letter from her?  There was a tug on his shirt and he looked down in surprise. He’d thought everyone else had already returned to the Citadel. Merry was solemn; he was sad, too. “Do you want to help us dry the pipe-weed, Faramir?”

His only alternative was standing here, miserable.  He had to move on. “Yes.” Faramir laughed, pained. “Yes, I think I would.”

“Good.” Pippin took his hand and they led him away.

***

            It was nearly an hour after they’d left when she thought to check her pocket.  Éowyn, her horse and all the others walking calmly now, their excess energy spent, pulled out the little package Pippin had given her; she was curious to see what it was.  She carefully unwrapped it, Éomer glancing inquiringly at her.  Éowyn laughed when she saw what it was, showing him. “Chocolate.” It was a palm-sized hunk of rich, dark chocolate. I can’t imagine where they got this, she thought and broke off some for herself and a piece for her brother, leaning across to hand it to him.  It was good. Not too sweet, not too bitter, melting on her tongue and her throat grew tight with sadness. I will miss those two.

            They rode all day long, pausing to rest only once before setting up the small tents that evening.  Retiring early, she lay in her blankets, rubbing the warm stone dolphin. The pads of her fingers slid rhythmically over and over the little knobby fins, as she lay unable to sleep. Strangely, Éowyn felt alone. Odd, he annoyed me so, yet…she wrapped her arms around herself, frustrated, then folded her hands under her cheek, it would be nice to have him here with his arm around me...what am I saying? It drove me mad. Yet…I could feel I wasn’t alone, that he was there…and I was safe.  Oh, I am foolish—how could I be safer than sleeping in a tent pitched no more than five feet from Éomer’s, surrounded by thousands of my own people? Gríma is long gone. She sighed and tried to clear her mind. As she finally slid into sleep, it seemed to her that Faramir was close by, watching and Éowyn slept deep and dreamless, content.

***

            Faramir spent his morning sneaking into Aragorn’s room to steal back the hobbit’s pipe-weed while Pippin distracted him, and his afternoon learning the finer points of leaf management.  Merry and Pippin had been outraged to find Aragorn had stolen half their hard-earned pickings and had demanded Faramir aid them in getting it back. Thinking of the man’s glee at seeing Éowyn naked while he hadn’t yet, he’d quickly agreed. The theft was easy, obviously unexpected and the hobbits had been grateful.  Faramir offered the use of Boromir’s empty rooms to dry their pipe-weed in, reasoning Aragorn would hardly think to look there.  Merry and Pippin spent the entire afternoon and evening teaching him about pipe-weed, to the point of Faramir staring at them in mute astonishment that they could and did know so much about what was to him a fairly useless plant.

Although rather silly, the small adventure and then the lessons cheered him somewhat and took his mind away from its depressed rut.  It was only when that night, lying on his back in bed, alone and remembering sleeping warm and close to Éowyn that his heart ached, paining him terribly.  It has been one day, he thought in despair. One day.  Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to rise out of his body again.  It was more difficult this time, but he didn’t give up.  Slowly, slowly he felt the restraints keeping him in his flesh and his room slip off.  Free, Faramir floated up into the sky, turning immediately to the road.  Like an arrow he shot forward, seeking Éowyn’s familiar mind. She was within his range still and it was not long before he found her, the glow of her consciousness growing soft with slumber and Faramir came close to where she lay.  He touched her mind gently, wondering if she could feel his presence.  I love you, he thought, already fading.  He was rapidly tiring and his body pulling him back. 

He opened his eyes to the darkness, his muscles and his head aching. Grabbing his pillow and wrapping his arms around it, Faramir sighed deeply. One day. Valar, help me I may not see her again for months.  The thought was horrible enough to keep him awake until the early hours.  Valar, help me to endure this.

Translations—

Min Ides! Sǽl!—My Lady! Time!

Beoð ge gesunde –Greetings (plural)

Halorl, gesibling, Ic þe axige a mæst þéowhád.—Halorl, kinsman, I ask you a great service.

Ac, min Hlaford?—What, my Lord?

Ábenðse Hordere in eower geþiode, gewuna ond drohtoð gelíce and a cempa-Gelíce and miccle ge cunnan. —Command the Steward in your language, custom and way of life as a soldier-as much you can.

Efne hwænne se hwil of se metsung cuman—Only until the first of the supplies come. Gea, min Hlaford. Ic genǽged.—Yes, my Lord. I will.

God. Ic þancie þe ealfela. —Good. I thank you very much.

Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe—I ask you, don’t worry, my love

Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss—I ask you, no sorrow. Only a kiss.

Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið.  Giet, a coss tó habban me—My desire for your companionship will warm me until I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.

Cymð, Faramir—Come, Faramir

Efne a coss, gea?—Only a kiss, yes?

Gea. God, Faramir, god—Yes. Good, Faramir, good.

Na, ge dol mann—No, you foolish man.

Wes ðu hal, Líeg—I greet you, Flame.

Horses—

Éomer’sByrga—is the word for the concept of surety, certainty. He’s a dapple-grey gelding.

Éowyn’s Líeg—Flame. Chestnut gelding from Gondor.

(Whew, that’s a lot more Rohirric than I thought it was! :D)