Three days.

“It’s a fish.”

            Her hand went to the little carving, self-consciously clutching it as she looked up at him.  Éomer was pleased when she said, “Yes.” It had taken him three days of small, partial glimpses to discern what Faramir had given her and now that he had, he was puzzled.

            “It’s a fish...”

            Éowyn laughed; it was a light-hearted sound and he felt great relief that she was no longer as subdued as she’d been the first day. “Yes, it is.”  She walked in front of Líeg, already having begun teaching him the proper manners of a Rohirric horse.  He was saddled and bridled, but she didn’t have a hand or lead on him—he was expected to figure out that he was to follow on his own.  So far the horse of Gondor had proven quite intelligent; he kept his nose close to her shoulder as Éomer paced them aboard Byrga.  His sister smiled at him as he asked,

            “Why did he give you a fish?” 

            “It’s called a dolphin. They swim in the sea. Here.” She stopped. Byrga and Líeg did so as well; the chestnut eyed her for further instructions, his ears pricked, obviously enjoying this game.  Around them, riders kept moving as Éowyn lifted the necklace from around her neck and handed it up to him.  Éomer took it carefully.  It was a dark blue stone, mottled with dark green.  Bowed into a half-moon shape, the fish was odd and one he’d never seen; he couldn’t picture it swimming all bent like that.  Handing it back down to her, he continued, teasing,

            “That doesn’t answer why.”

            “It was his mother’s; he thought I might like it,” She resumed walking and Líeg followed obediently.  Byrga lifted his head from the grass he’d been nibbling and did so as well, Éomer gently bumping his heels against his gelding’s sides.  Keep up friend, he thought. “I do like it—it’s not…” She trailed off, frowning, not quite able to express herself. 

            He finished for her, knowing his sister well and slightly disturbed that Faramir could have learned so much in such a short time. “It’s not something he picked because it was glittering with jewels or gold.” It means something—it’s valuable in personal, expressive way. Gods, he’s a quick study, isn’t he? A great deal of women would have been quite pleased with the gold or jewels—things my sister does not care for.  

            “Yes.” Éowyn brightened and he relaxed, glad she was no longer in a mood.  Byrga pulled on his reins, asking for more freedom and he rubbed his neck, checking for damp sweat or heat—his horse was cool.  He looked at the chestnut, scrutinizing him for any lather on his flanks or chest, but he had cooled as well.

“Ready to go?” He asked her. It was time to canter again if they wanted to make good speed.  They were three days out and he guessed they had about that many more until they reached Edoras.  Only three to four days, he thought, and we will be home.  It both gladdened him and made him nervous.  Nothing will be the same.

“Yes, I suppose he’s done enough of this.” Éowyn stopped and patted her horse’s neck, cooing, “You’ve done very well, Líeg.” Éomer rolled his eyes as she produced a carrot, prattling sweetly, “Hasn’t he?” The chestnut’s ears pricked and he looked at her in new interest, chewing his treat. Éowyn scratched his neck. “Líeg’s a smart horse, hmm?”

“Oh, stop it.”  He pretended he was repulsed; really he was watching her pleasure in a new horse and delighted that she was happy again.  The first day they’d left the City she had been silent and melancholy, but now she seemed herself once more. “You’re spoiling him.”

“What? Never.” She smiled at him and pulled out another bit of carrot. The gelding took it, gently plucking it from her flattened palm—it was clear that he was being careful not to bite her.  When he finished chewing, Éowyn planted a kiss on the side of his muzzle. “He’s a sweet boy, isn’t he?”  Éomer feigned more disgust; he was really far more pleased by her cheerful attitude than annoyed with her bribing her mount with treats.

“Byrga does not need such things—look at him—he is a man’s horse and cannot be bought.” The grey’s ears twitched at the sound of his name, but he stood still and quiet, only his long tail moving; he was waiting for a signal to move again.

“No?” Éowyn smirked mischievously, showing him another bit of carrot in her fingers. “Byrga, darling lad? Do you want a kiss?” She held out her hand and to his amazement the grey immediately moved forward beneath him, lowering his head to gobble up the offering.  She laughed and gave him the treat, lightly kissing his dark nose. “Man’s horse.” She mocked. “They’re all able to be bought when it comes to carrots, brother.”

This time Éomer did not have to pretend disgust. He eyed his mount in real distaste. “What did you do to him?”  Byrga ignored his voice, taking another step toward his sister, lifting his nose to her face.

“Nothing.” It was innocent as she kissed the air over the grey’s nose and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her.

Éowyn laughed as he accused, “You spoiled him, didn’t you?  That time I left him at home for you to use?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” She rubbed Byrga’s forehead, stroking his muzzle. Líeg’s ears flattened and he tossed his head at the bigger horse. “Now, don’t be jealous.” She scolded the chestnut. “Neither of you are getting any more.   Come, we need to go again.”

The gelding stood quiet, his brown eyes blinking docilely as Éomer nudged his mount, positioning him slightly in front of hers to block any sudden movements.  He caught her eyes flash annoyance at him, but he couldn’t help it, taking care of her was habit too ingrained.  Éowyn checked her girth, tightening it again and sprang quickly into the saddle.  Líeg, already calmed considerably, stood still for her to put her feet in the stirrups.  Éomer nudged his heel against Byrga’s side, moving him out of their path.  As he clucked to his horse, Éowyn dropped her reins, only holding onto the knot at their very end.  This, too, was more training and even though he knew she was completely capable of handling him, Eomer watched worriedly as the chestnut flipped his nose, searching for restraint.  It didn’t come, even as he crab-stepped into a trot, his neck arching and his ears back.  Éowyn murmured something he couldn’t hear, rising in the saddle as her horse tossed his head rebelliously and broke into a fast canter.  Byrga followed more sedately; he was an experienced horse, well versed in long journeys back and forth across the Riddermark and knew there was no point in galloping about like a colt.  Éomer had to push him into a run as Líeg gave a small buck and threw himself forward.  Behind them and to their sides, the Riders followed suit, each keeping their position as they asked their horses to pick up speed. 

He urged Byrga into a gallop, trying to keep up with the quick chestnut. Smaller built than his horse and carrying less weight, Líeg sprinted away easily, his sister’s golden hair whipping in their wake.  Soon, though, Eomer knew he had to slow if he wanted to maintain the easy pace that would not tire his mount and he nervously watched Éowyn get farther and farther away.  She can handle herself, he repeated over and over in his mind; she knows what she’s doing.  As his seat came back into the saddle, Byrga settled down into a smooth lope.  His sister took Líeg off the road to avoid the Riders ahead of them and Eomer fixed his eyes on the chestnut’s tail. Pick up the reins, sister, he chided anxiously.  Pick them up—you can train him at home where I can follow. 

***

Éowyn already had picked up her reins. She tugged gently, deliberately putting very little pressure on the bit.  Líeg paid no attention to the soft pull—his tongue and the bars of his mouth had toughened after years of restraint and she wondered if he could even feel it.  I doubt it; he needs a bitless bridle to soften his mouth again.  “You will run yourself out, Líeg,” she scolded.  The gelding was stretched out in a racing gallop, his ears flat in excitement; he thought he was running away with her.  The grass whipped by, swishing loudly as they barreled through it, riding at full speed parallel to the road.  She rose in the saddle, her feet firm in the stirrups, waiting for him to tire as they passed scores of Riders as though they were standing still.  Pulling back would only encourage him to resist and the muscles in his neck were already overdeveloped from doing just that.  Éowyn dropped her reins again—she wanted him to learn to go at an easy pace and that he was not going to be thrust back into a cramped stall after his ride.

 Relax, she thought, stroking his neck.  One ear tipped back and she said it aloud, “Relax, easy, we have all day, many days Líeg.  I will not put you into a stall in Edoras—you will go into a great, wide paddock with the others to eat grass.” Her voice soothing, she continued, “This winter I will not ride you; no, you will go into the far pastures to learn to be a horse living in a herd.  You will like it and in the spring you will be ready to do things with me again.”  His strides had shortened a bit, though she couldn’t tell if it was from his tiring or her words.  Líeg had both ears back to listen now as she spoke, “In spring…” Éowyn faltered and he slowed still further into a smooth, rocking-chair canter. She’d caught herself, remembering, “If I am at Edoras in the spring—I,” She frowned, “I probably won’t be.”  I might not be there all winter or even past fall…for the first time ever.  I must go with Faramir when we are married and he will want to be in Minas Tirith.  He said it would take a while to build our home; I remember the image in his dream, it was great and beautiful place—it might take over a year…we may spend a year or more living in the White City.   

This was a somewhat disturbing thought and she stroked his neck as he jogged now, moving along to his quick, elastic strides.  He has good suspension, she distracted herself, still patting him, he will be a good jumper—I like that. When he finally halted, with her putting no pressure on the reins, she immediately slid off of his back.  Loosening his girth as a reward while she waited for her brother to catch up, Éowyn apologized, “I’m sorry.”  Slightly lathered, his nostrils flared and breathing hard, the gelding turned to rub his forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know where I’ll keep you when I’m in Gondor, but I won’t forget you in a stall, I promise.”  She braced herself, as he rubbed roughly, sweat itching him below his bridle. Scratching behind his ears, where she’d found he liked, she scolded fondly. “You’re getting me dirty.”  The gelding blew, snorting, then turned to her.  His brown eyes were hopeful as his nose hovered over her shirt. 

Fishing in her pockets for another piece of carrot, Éowyn fed it to him.  He’d stopped, after all, with no restraint.  She smiled, pleased at this small progress; he chewed and she looked past his hindquarters and slapping tail at the Riders. Her brother’s armor shone in the sun as he broke off from the main force to come to her. “Even if you did run away with me for a bit.” He neared and she sighed in a long-suffering fashion, “Watch, he will think I fell off of you.”

Byrga slowed to a walk, his grey ears pricking and she waited. “Did you fall off?” Éomer gazed down at her worriedly, eyeing her closely for any scrapes or bruises.  Resigned, Éowyn smiled and moved to retighten Líeg’s girth.

“No. He stopped on his own.” 

“Oh. That’s good.” The Riders curved away from them on the right, keeping the same easy canter that their horses could maintain for an hour or two.  Her brother kneed Byrga closer and grasped the reins, holding Líeg in place while she got up on him. Éowyn could understand that, it was courteous and probably safer with a horse not trained as well as a Rohirric mount, but it still annoyed her.  I can take care of myself, has nothing I’ve done proven that?

Her feet in the stirrups, she said pointedly, “You can let go now.”  Does he look upset? she wondered as Eomer nodded and released the bridle.  Feeling slightly guilty, she glanced at him as he urged Byrga back into a lope and back into his place in line but he didn’t look at her.  Holding onto the knot at the end of her reins again, Éowyn was glad when Líeg followed her lower leg directions docilely, having run out his excess energy.  Her brother looked sad, even distressed.  Surely her remark could not have hurt him so.  Éowyn bit her lip, disturbed.  What did I do?

***

Faramir repeated carefully, “Ic frignan, motan sceotan.” He looked at Halorl, translating, “I ask permission to shoot. Right?”

“Gea. God.” Halorl nodded then gave him another sentence, “Ic ag se eoh.”

He felt like a student again, frowning over crumbling elvish texts, trying desperately to remember the words.  Frustrated, he was in the worst stage of being able to recognize some words and yet not recall what they meant no matter how long he stared at or said them. “I…something… this horse...the horse?”

The Rohirrim frowned, searching for the word in the Common Tongue. Like most people he could understand and communicate far better in a foreign language by listening than by speaking.  “Is yours.  Is eower eoh.”

“Is your horse. To own?” He quickly figured it out.  Glancing down at the lengthy scrolls on which he’d scribbled all the verbs and their accompanying tenses he and Halorl could come up with, Faramir searched for “ag”. It was first person, agan--to own.  He’d been studying as much as possible the last few days and while Faramir knew he was making good progress, there was so much in a language, any language, that the next week and a half he had with Halorl would have to count for a lot.  He’d already went through all the nouns he could think of or point to and written them down as well as the pronouns. Guessing at spelling and accents and even creating some of his own to give him an idea of how to pronounce the strange words, he’d worked almost all day long every day since Éowyn had left; now he stared at the rolls of paper. They were thickly covered in writing. It’s so much, Faramir thought in brief despair, I’ll never be able to be fluent enough for Éomer by the end of this year, much less this summer.

 The Rohirrim, unnoticing, answered. “Gea. Ic ag se eoh.” He was looking out of the window in Faramir’s small, cramped study.  There were books and papers all over the place, and many stains on the desk from spilled ink.  He’d had to find a chair for Halorl, but the man usually stood at the window, looking out at the limited view of the fifth level.  Faramir didn’t blame him—his study was entirely undecorated with bare walls and only the messy arrangement of papers to entertain.  People-watching was undoubtedly far more engaging.  I don’t use it much, he thought, eyeing the dusty books.  There was really little need, suffice from having a private place to escape to. The libraries were far more convenient. 

Halorl had turned, so he repeated. “Ic ag se eoh--I own this horse.” 

“God. Nu, Ic eom renweard.”

He looked at him as he translated, “I am... Ic eom...” His accent was terrible, Faramir knew.  Halorl had grinned at him often in the last three days; obviously amused by his inability to make his mouth move and create the sounds the same way the Rohirrim did.  “Something. I don’t know.” Faramir sighed deeply, putting his head in his hands.  They’d been doing this for hours now.

“Horseguard.” 

“What is that? I thought the word for horse was eoh, anyway.”

Halorl frowned and shook his head. “Horse is many words.” He held up his fingers, ticking them off as he listed, “eoh, hengest, hors and mearh are some.”

“Oh.” Faramir should have known better—they were the Horse-Lords, after all. “What is a horseguard?”

 Halorl just shook his head again, but didn’t speak; he didn’t have all the words to explain it accurately, though it sounded important. Faramir closed his eyes in frustration, asking, “Something else, give me something harder.”

“Syõõan hi afarene wæron, Ic schulan læran ge.”

Well, I wanted something harder. He sat silent for a long moment. He’d recognized the words I, “Ic”, was, “wæs” and you, “ge”.  Faramir admitted defeat. “Something easier, then.”

“Ic eom a cempa in se éored of Éomer Hlaford.”

“I am a soldier in the éored of Lord Éomer.”  I will be, he thought, shaking his head.  My brother would laugh and laugh to know what all I am doing for a woman, though, Faramir smiled faintly, I think he would be jealous that I’m going off to have an adventure in Rohan while he was stuck here.  I wish he were here to glare at me for leaving him; Faramir’s smiled widened, or flirt relentlessly with Éowyn just to anger me.

Halorl sighed, sounding just as tired as he. “God, Faramir, god. Now say,” He grinned suddenly and sat in the chair. “You wish to speak to our Lady?”

“Yes.” Faramir frowned, wondering what that meant. “Of course I will.”

“Then you must be proper.”

 “Proper?”

“You will…Ge wes—” He pointed across at his chest. “Soldier, cempa. Ná Ealdor, not Prince—you must bow, not speak. Is ná gecynde. Is not proper.”

I won’t be able to talk to her in public? Faramir was astonished and suddenly angry with Éomer.  Did he plan it that way? Because, if so, he’s more intelligent than I’ve given him credit for…and more cunning.  He sat up, leaning over the desk, “Tell me how to speak properly to her.”

“Must say—“Min Ides,” Halorl paused, “Ic frignan ge lætan me to—” He nodded, almost to himself. “That means, My Lady, I ask you allow me to…” Halorl waved a hand in Faramir’s direction, “then you speak.” He frowned, “If she allows you. You wait for her.”

If she allows me.  Wonderful. He sighed inwardly. “Anything else?”

“Næfre say her name and næfre…” He patted the desk. 

“Touch her.” Faramir slumped down in his chair, feeling depressed.  I hate Éomer.  I will truly be a soldier then, no more.  I must do his will.  Valar, this is a hard test.

“Gea.” Halorl looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Næfre come close, næfre walk next to her.” He nodded, “Be soldier.  Understand? Ge wast, gea?

Wast…wast…witan, to know. You know, yes? I wish I didn’t. “Gea.” He rubbed his forehead.  He was getting a headache when Halorl added,

“They will test.”

“What?” He frowned, trying to understand where that fit into the conversation.  Halorl repeated and elucidated in both tongues,

“They will test you. Man wille fandian ge. The éored, the soldiers.”

“How?”  He was thinking of when soldiers ascended in the ranks and he was wrong as the Rohirrim clarified, or rather confused further,

“Éored are brothers.  Will test—bravery, know things…test, understand?” Faramir wasn’t sure he did.  Halorl kept on, “Must be careful.  Not hurt, næfre, but not easy to you.  They don’t know you...” He shook his head, “Witon ná eower blod, eower cynn. Understand?”

“No.” My blood? Does he mean my lineage? He still had no ideas; sometimes the language and culture barrier was too much. Faramir was baffled and since Halorl naturally thought in Rohirric, he would have to figure this out on his own. “My blood?”

“People of horse. Firas of eoh. ” He frowned and thumped his chest for emphasis. “Halorl, son of…they know me...even if not meet before.” He pointed at Faramir. “Faramir of Gondor, fah, ná mǽgðhád mid our firas. Ná mæg in Riddermark.” Halorl hesitated, then said, his voice more respectful, “Nænig in se Riddena-mearc.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t even know half of those words. Only people; no, or not; horse; our and with. Not with our horse people? What is the part about the Riddermark—that is their name for their land, right? Valar, this is confusing! “Can you explain it better?” But Halorl frowned and shook his head. He was unable to reword it any clearer and he grew grave, saying,

“Ge wes nawiht to min firas.” His expression was serious, “You take our Lady, Faramir.  She is highest, brave, noblewoman. They will test much. I warn you.”

Great. I am nothing to their people. I understand that, don’t I? Putting his head in his hands again, he groaned.  He was definitely depressed now and Faramir was ready to stop for the day.

***

Five days.

She felt it a second before it happened; he’d been cantering smoothly alongside Byrga, and she’d tugged back on the reins. Immediately, Líeg bucked high, his hooves slamming into the dirt on stiff legs as he came down.  With a snort of pleasure, his muscles convulsed again, tossing her up with him. Éowyn clung with her legs, trying to keep her balance.  When she took a breath, she gasped out, “Easy, easy.”

He ignored her and plunged forward, head between his knees. The earth wheeled around her faster and faster—brown earth/green grass/blue sky then…earth/grass/sky/earthgrasssky and his back kinked again as she hung on. This was Líeg’s first day wearing a bitless bridle.  She’d tied his reins to a leather halter, careful to make sure they would not slip when she pulled them and that the halter fit well enough that her commands would not move it around on his head.  It had not taken him long to figure out what the lack of the metal bar in his mouth meant and when she’d asked him to slow, he’d exploded.

“Sister?” Éomer hovered nearby on Byrga, halting him and turning him on his hindquarters, keeping his head facing her no matter where Líeg flung himself.  The calm grey gelding watched and his brown eyes were startled as Éowyn decided enough was enough and let go. He’s not going to stop anytime soon and this is not teaching him anything. Líeg’s next buck threw her and she rolled as she fell, tucking her body.  Pressing her face to the grass, Éowyn waited.

“Sister, are you all right?” It was louder, more anxious. She moved her hand, irritably signaling him away and then lay motionless, crumpled up where she’d landed.  There were a few more thumps as Líeg bounded again, kicking his hind legs and then he stopped. Éowyn peeked through her eyelashes at him.  The chestnut blew loudly through his extended nostrils, shaking his head and looking at her.  His ears moved, and he leaned down to rub his nose against his knee but he didn’t step forward.  He was waiting for her to get up; he’d thrown people before.  I’m dead, she thought.  You’ve killed me.  Éowyn closed her eyes, relaxing all over.  The sun was warm on her skin and it was almost pleasant as she waited. There were the slow, hesitant thuds of hoof beats and after several more seconds Líeg’s nose touched her hair. Éowyn didn’t move, allowing him to nudge her gently. His muzzle rolled her arm off of her face; he snuffled and she opened her eyes. Líeg looked concerned and almost apologetic.  As you should be, she inwardly admonished. 

Slowly, she moved her hand to stroke his nose and he lifted his head, taking a small step back as she rose up.  Éowyn winced as she stood; she would have bruises tomorrow.  Líeg was quiet as she took a hold of his halter. “Let’s try this again, friend.”

***

Éomer wanted her to put the damn bridle back on.  Byrga shifted beneath him, reacting to his anxiety and he absently patted the gelding’s neck. Beside him, on the road, the concerned Riders that had halted to watch resumed walking.  It would be another half-hour or so before they cantered again and many were on foot, resting their horses’ backs and stretching their legs.  “Maybe you shouldn’t…” That was as far as he got before she leaped back into the saddle. Éowyn gave him a sharp glance.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He frowned, “I know.”  Damn Faramir, if he were here I’d kick him in the teeth for sending this horse—even though it makes her happy because she can do things with it and teach it.  He sighed deeply, knowing he would be unable to stop her from riding the chestnut.  “I just don’t want you to get hurt, sister.”  Don’t you know what that would do to me? You are the only thing I have left to lose.

“I won’t get hurt.” She scoffed at him, already clucking to get her horse moving again. She was probably right, he thought; Éowyn is, like most women, good with dumb beasts.  However, he knew horses, too and the gelding hadn’t gotten everything out of himself yet.  There was a slight hump to his back as she walked him and he kept tossing his head and feeling for the bit. He’ll buck again soon as we speed up.  He knows there’s nothing stopping him and he doesn’t have our training.  Gods, if she falls and gets hurt, we’re nowhere near any real healers—we’re still at least two days away from Edoras, maybe three.  Sister please put the damn bridle back on!

***

She could feel him under her and he was jumpy.  He walked quick, throwing his nose down and out often, moving his jaw, always in anticipation of restraint. He wasn’t used to being ridden without a bit in his mouth and she could feel him want to erupt again.  Éowyn rubbed his neck. “It’s all right.”  I sound like Faramir, she thought, amused. This was no time to think of him, though, with a horse jigging under her, his feet hardly touching the ground before springing back up.  I wonder what he’s doing, if he’s thinking of me. 

Stop it, she lectured herself as Líeg shied, leaping sideways, his head turning to peer wide-eyed at a rabbit leaping through the grass.  She swayed in the saddle and thought sharply, Focus you idiot or you’ll end up on the ground.  Picking up her reins she tugged gently at the halter, using her lower legs to reinforce the request.  The gelding moved reluctantly and Éowyn wondered if she would have to teach him respect.  He did not understand that she could control him quite well without a bit, but chose not to—his whole life he’d been ridden with a bar of metal to force him to go as his rider wished.  He crowded her brother’s horse and she gritted her teeth, using her legs and heels very lightly to push him off of Byrga.  One more thing, Líeg and we’ll have to have a talk about this foolishness.

***

Faramir balanced himself in his stirrups, leaning out across the empty space between the horses, reaching for the dangling reins.  His own mount galloped straight, but the other swerved—he was becoming convinced it wasn’t being rebellious, but acting in obedience to its master’s wishes.  “Pippin stop it!”

“Stop what? I can’t!”  The hobbit hung on with all four limbs as his horse ran away with him, curving away back to the city.  Faramir cursed, turning his and slapping his reins against its neck to urge it back into a gallop.  He might have been more sympathetic if this hadn’t been the third time he’d had to chase Pippin’s horse down.  He begged and begged for a big horse and now look at this…I’d be standing under that damn tree right now if it weren’t for him—Faramir yelled across the slowly closing hole between the two racing geldings,

“Pick up the damn reins!” 

“I’ll fall!” Like the previous two times, Pippin refused to let go of the saddle.

He was close, only three bow lengths away and he pounded his heels rhythmically against his horse’s flanks, keeping his legs tight to urge it on but the weight gap between him and the hobbit disadvantaged Faramir’s mount and he wasn’t getting any closer. “No you won’t!”

“Yes!”  Pippin’s horse flattened itself out still further, speeding up and he wondered if it had been raced before—the cursed thing was faster than the wind. “I will!”

Feeling as though he might explode from frustration, Faramir bellowed back, “No you won’t!” His horse swerved suddenly and he grabbed the mane to steady himself as another gelding moved alongside.  Halorl had joined him in the hunt and Faramir wondered who was holding Merry’s horse now.  Valar, don’t make me chase them both down! The Rohirrim was cheerful as he rode to Pippin’s right, humming something under his breath.  Faramir, seeing his plan, stuck to the left, keeping the runaway horse to a straight line. “Pippin!”

The high voice was even higher, “What?!” 

He asks me what. There was going to be one less hobbit staying in the Citadel once he caught him. “Pick up the reins!”

“No, no.” Halorl laughed loudly, as though the runaway horse was a great jest for his amusement. His grasp of the Common Tongue was improving at a far more rapid rate than Faramir’s knowledge of Rohirric and he sometimes wondered who was teaching whom. “Make him go! Kick him!”

“What?” Faramir yelled, horrified. “No, don’t you dare Pippin! I swear if you—!”

“Gea! Yes!” The Rohirric man laughed again. “Make him go so he wants to stop!”

“What?” He looked across at him in confusion; his horse’s nose was at the hobbit’s saddle blanket and he was prepping himself to make the reach across empty space again, knowing full well he didn’t have the use of his left hand to catch himself if he slipped.  “What does that mean?”

“Watch!” To Faramir’s horror Halorl leaned forward and slapped his gloved palm against the bay hindquarters of Pippin’s big horse. It immediately leapt into a full, hard gallop and Halorl slowed, gesturing for Faramir to follow suit.  “We follow, he runs. We stop, he stops.”

He closed his eyes, furious and confused as his gelding came to a halt, breathing hard. “No, he’s getting away and he’s carrying Pippin with him.”  There was the brief sensation of the hobbit’s alarm when he noticed they were no longer following and Faramir blocked it forcibly.

Halorl grinned, waving emphatically to the miles of empty land around them, “To where? Horses don’t like to be alone—is bad to them, dangerous. He will come back. We are where he wants to be.”

Faramir had begun his search for the tree in his dreams, though so far he hadn’t gotten far enough away from Minas Tirith to really begin. The city still loomed just across the river and he was beginning to think it would have to be an overnight trip, maybe several nights.  Feeling his anger drain, he asked wearily, “Where is Merry?”

“Back there; on the ground, holding his horse.” Halorl was leaned forward; speaking into his horse’s ear as it turned back to listen. “He wile comon. Faramir is ná gleaw, is dumb.”

Faramir gave the Rohirric man a look. “I understood that.”

He chuckled, “God, ge eart gebetende.” Faramir didn’t fully understand that, though he said nothing. Suddenly Halorl pointed. “See? I was right.” Pippin’s horse had halted about a half-mile away and had turned back to face them. The hobbit shouted something Faramir couldn’t understand but he guessed consisted of a plea to come and save him. He took some small pleasure in not doing so.  “He will come.”

“Why didn’t he keep going?”

His horse sighed deeply, lowering its weary head to crop a bit of grass. The Rohirrim frowned at him, his eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?” 

Faramir slumped in his saddle—this was the look he got whenever he said or did something Halorl considered extraordinarily stupid. After five days it was a familiar expression. “No, I don’t.”

“Ge wat ná hu a mearh hicgan?” The Rohirric man shook his head slowly and the emotion Faramir read was pity mixed with incredulity. “Turn your horse to face away from Pippin’s.”

Obeying, he asked, “Hwa for?” Why should I do that? What difference could that make?

“It wile comon. It will come. You will see. Ge wilt sceawian.”

Faramir could only wait and frantically try to memorize the Rohirric Halorl was considerately translating for him.  Suddenly a thought occurred and he remembered something.  Éowyn never told me her song; dammit, I can’t remember it all. Only the last bit.  Stumbling a little over the words, he clumsily asked, “Halorl, what does cymð bæc…min lufiend, Ic synd eower, a…a ge eart na min mean?” 

            The Rohirrim laughed delightedly, looking startled. “Who said that to you?”

            “Éowyn. What does it mean?  I think, Come back…my…I…yours…you are not mine…” Faramir could only partially translate it and now that he had, he was anxious to hear the rest.

            Again, there was proof that Halorl was learning the Common Tongue far quicker than Faramir was learning Rohirric; the man had no trouble translating, though with a confused glance, “It means, come back my lover, I am yours, but you are not mine.”

            “Oh.”  That’s puzzling and slightly disturbing...she is mine, but I am not hers?  What does that mean? She said it was her song, but not when she made it…I don’t understand.  “What would that mean?”

            “If what?”  He got a raised eyebrow and a puzzled look, so he elaborated,

            “What would that mean if she said that to me.”

            Halorl laughed at him again, shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder. “Ic nat, Hordere—min Ides is eower cwen, ná min.”

            She is my woman, yes, but still…what does it mean? Anything now that she said she loved me? He stared at the horizon, pondering.    

            “What are you doing?” Pippin’s voice startled him.  Faramir turned in the saddle, the hobbit was only about ten yards away now and his horse was leisurely returning, stopping every few feet to crop a bite of grass.  Halorl grinned,

            “See? What did I say to you?”

            Faramir did see, he just didn’t understand.  That’s becoming the usual, these days isn’t it, he thought tiredly.  “I see. Now, come on, I’m sure Merry’s worried sick.”  He leaned over and took Pippin’s reins to lead his horse.  “Let’s go back.”

***

Éowyn could practically hear her brother’s thoughts as he looked at her; it was time to canter again and he kept glancing sideways, working himself up to speak—he wanted her to replace the bridle, he wanted her to ride another horse, he wanted, he wanted.  I don’t care what you want, she thought fiercely. I am a grown woman, no one’s charge but my own and no one has mastery over me... Éowyn wavered, remembering. Until I am Faramir’s wife that is…she hastily put the thought from her mind.

“Maybe, sister…” He faltered, hesitating. “Maybe…” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fists around the loose reins; the leathers flopped against Líeg’s neck, moving with his strides.  He’s only trying to do what’s best for me, I know how he is…he loves me, he would be unbearable and feel guilty for not saying something or trying to stop me if I actually got hurt… Remember the time when I was so ill? She closed her eyes briefly, trying to hold onto her temper as he began anew, “Perhaps you should leave his training for later, maybe in a few months at Edoras, when he’s settled.”  He gave her a quick look, surveying her mood. 

She was composed, answering, “I think he’ll be fine.”  Will I even be there in a few months or will I be living at my new home, the cramped Citadel where I know no one except Faramir and Aragorn?  Gods, what will I do? What duties is the wife of the Steward expected to perform? Any at all—except for keeping his house and bearing of his children…? The thought struck her that that very future was the one she’s always rebelled against and Éowyn’s teeth gritted. I am not a broodmare, dammit—to be put to a stud as soon as I may! Or, worse, will I have to sit idle all day and chat politely with the same women who mock me?  He said I could do what I want, that he wanted no more of me than I could give, but…I don’t think I could give those things for anyone…I love him, he’s a good man—gentle, patient and loving.  I need to know what he expects now, before …  Her thoughts were broken by her brother’s careful arguments.

“I’m not sure he will.” Éomer’s brow furrowed and emboldened by her calmness, he kept on, “You could get hurt, he’s not trustworthy and…”

 Éowyn failed utterly in her attempts at tranquility, snapping, “If you don’t think I can do it, why don’t you just say so, Éomer?”       

“I didn’t.” He frowned.  “All I want is…”

Yes, it’s all about what you want, I know.  And what if I want to ride an unreliable horse? If I were a man we would not be having this conversation.  “You may as well have—what do you think?  That because I’m not a man…I’m…I’m weak, that I can’t do it? That I should just sit in the house like all the others?” Furious, she spat, “You know damn well I can ride just as well as you!”Around them Riders gracefully maneuvered their horses away, allowing them privacy. Éomer halted Byrga; his expression was disturbed as he turned in the saddle to speak to her and Éowyn leaned her weight forward, clucking loudly and rapidly. Reacting, Líeg bolted directly into a canter, striding strongly forward off of his hindquarters in an athletic and coordinated fashion—it was something that would have pleased her if she weren’t so angry.   

“Sister, wait!” He sounded saddened and again she felt a stab of guilt.  No, brother, I will not stop.

***

            Éomer swore under his breath and leaned forward, his weight sinking into his stirrups as he cued Byrga to canter. The grey smoothly obeyed and they weaved in and out of the lines of Riders, following the chestnut.  He’d known, of course, that she would be angry, but he hadn’t expected this. Since when does she run from me?  When we fight I’m more likely to get hit than watch her run off...and why would she think I think she is weak?  It angered him and he took Byrga off the road; they thundered through the spring grass as Éomer shouted, “Éowyn!”  Not caring in the slightest that he was making a scene, he yelled again, “Éowyn! Stop!”

            She ignored him, riding low on her horse’s neck and Éomer stubbornly kept following.  Of course I would be concerned about that damn animal; it’s run away with her almost every day since we left and we have no real healers here to help her if it threw her.  I’d rather Faramir had married her then and there in Minas Tirith and be riding home alone than have her hurt…gods, does she not understand?  She is my responsibility; mine alone now.  Théodred is gone—I have no one to aid me in my watch.  Eomer touched his heels gently to Byrga’s belly and the gelding leapt forward.  She can’t run forever.

***

            But she could run all day.  Although she’d avoided him until now, Éowyn was caught.  It was evening; fireflies blinked greenly and the stars were beginning to show as the Rohirrim halted for the night.  Her tent, as usual, was being set up next to her brother’s and she curried Líeg’s sweaty coat vigorously, ignoring him as he tiredly dismounted off of Byrga.  The chestnut had his neck stretched out, his upper lip quivering and his eyes half-closed in pleasure as she rubbed the stiff curry hard into his body.  Her brother began unsaddling Byrga; he wasn’t looking at her and she did the same, taking out her frustrations and guilt on Líeg’s glossy hide.  Already he’d lost all of the excess fat he’d accumulated from living in a stall and gained a great deal of muscle—he looked like a much better horse.  Exercise and free-grazing had improved his body, all she had to do was improve his mind and convince him he could be ridden without strict control, that riding wasn’t work, it was play.  All you need are a few months in a field, Líeg, she thought; six months without even seeing a person would help you a great deal. I only hope I can give it to you...I may not have more than two months of freedom myself.

            Done with the curry, she picked up her brush, energetically sweeping all of the dirt, salt sweat and loose hair from his coat.  Éowyn’s arms were tired by the time she finished; she’d already picked his hooves and checked his legs for any signs of heat or swelling—lameness on a journey was to be avoided at all costs.  She put the hobbles on his pasterns, making sure the padding was tight and in place so they would not chafe and that the buckles were well fastened so it would not come off and with a final pat she let Líeg loose.  Éowyn turned to go into her tent before her brother could speak to her, gathering up her saddle, bitless bridle and grooming tools.  Hauling her load, she glanced up and jumped in surprise.  He was standing right in front of her, his face stony.  Éomer spoke, sounding upset, “I never said that.”

            She swept by him, “Said what?”  Éowyn sat her saddle upright, piling her other things around it, too tired to wipe down the leather as she knew she should.  I must do it tomorrow or it will be filthy and it might dry out and get cracks. Her brother followed, standing just inside the canvas flaps.  They fluttered behind him in the evening breeze and she turned to face him, folding her arms.

            His expression was still unhappy, sadness on the edge of anger. “That you were weak.”

            “You think it.” One of her hands wanted to play with the dolphin but she didn’t. Éowyn lifted her chin, incensed. “Admit it—you try to oversee what I do everyday, Éomer.  Don’t do this, don’t do that…” I am not the little girl you could simply lift off the horse and carry away kicking and screaming, brother! “I’m not a child anymore!”

            “Then quit acting like one!” He was angry then, too, shouting at her.  “You know it’s dangerous and when I try and discuss it with you, you have a tantrum and run off!”

            “Tantrum?” She hissed it at him. “Discuss?  You told me what you wanted and expect me to do it!”

            “What I want is not to see you get hurt doing foolish things! Éowyn…” He abruptly sobered, turning away.  When he spoke again, he sounded beaten, resigned. “Never mind. Do what you wish.” Éomer left her and she wasn’t angry anymore, she was contrite again.  Damn him.

            Éowyn stood silent for a while, wanting to pace, wanting to shout, to do something.  In the end she just washed her hands and her face, scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails.  Looking down at herself, she set to wiping off the dust from the road.  It was almost impossible, but she brushed relentlessly at her clothes, trying to get the worst of the dirt and horsehair from them before she left her tent.  Hungry and tired, she moved to where the great stew pots were set up; they were bubbling and smelled wonderful.  A few young soldiers smiled at her and moved aside so she was first in line.  Éowyn smiled back. “Thank you.”

“My Lady.”

“Min Ides.”  They inclined their heads; their eyes were curious, admiring.  Feeling their gazes, she quickly got her meal and then walked slowly back to her tent, careful not to spill her stew while still hanging onto her piece of bread.  Gods, I’m starving, she thought, looking down.  It was thick with dried meat and vegetables and smelled delicious; spices floated on the surface and the steam warmed her hands.  

  “I’m sorry.”  She stopped in surprise. Her brother was behind her. 

“Why?”  Éowyn looked down at her stew feeling tired and saddened.  They had often had similar arguments and each one made her feel inconsiderate of her brother’s love. After all, he couldn’t help a certain amount of anxiety for her welfare—hadn’t he taken care of her her entire life? How long do I have with him?  She wondered and turned.  Éomer kept his eyes on hers as he spoke haltingly. 

“To be honest…I’m not sure.” That made her smile; she did love him dearly. “But, usually, if I apologize you’re not mad anymore.”

She sighed deeply. It was so difficult when it shouldn’t be. “I’m not mad that you want me to be safe. I just…it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. ” 

He seemed as awkward as she did. “Good. That’s good.” And she could hear it there between them—the desire not to spend their last time together in quarrels.  Éowyn’s heart hurt.  I will miss him very much when I go.  I do not think Faramir will fuss over me as he has...or at least with less determination. 

“Do you want to sit with me?” He pointed away toward a group of men. In them she could see no one she knew well; two of them, off to the side, she thought she could guess—they were tall and slender as reeds among the stoutly built Rohirrim and their eyes gleamed. Those must be the sons of Elrond, she thought, they look elvish enough, though not as fair as Legolas.  Éowyn hesitated, weary, but he looked hopeful and then pleased as she nodded slowly.

“Yes, I would.” Take care of me while you can, I suppose that’s perfectly fine.  Éowyn’s eyes burned with tears she didn’t shed as she followed him. Sometimes I’d rather be a little girl again, hanging onto his shirttails and running after him asking silly questions—it was easier.  Gods, was it easier.

That night he hugged her before she went to her bedroll; fiercely, his arms so tight around her that she couldn’t breathe and Éowyn hugged him back sadly, her cheek on his shoulder.  I will miss you, brother of mine.

***

Eight days.

            Faramir tried to dream of her every night, but every morning, like this one, he awoke dreamless.  He lay in bed and concentrated on her face, her blue eyes glinting with mischief in the few times she’d teased him, her soft lips, her arms around his neck…but it was no use.  Even in his dreams she evaded his embrace.  He stared at his ceiling, feeling bitter and wondering if she had reached Edoras yet. 

            I wish she were back here.  I never noticed how…lonely it was.  His bed seemed yawning and empty.  The sheets were cold and not even the soft furs under his chin were any comparison to her golden hair tickling his nose.  Faramir smiled faintly, listening to his thoughts. I am a fool.  He reached out with his mind, straining, but there was no answer.  The Rohirrim had swiftly ridden out of his range and he could not hear nor feel her.  A city full of people pulsed vivaciously just outside the walls of his room and Faramir felt alone.  Lovesick? Me?  Nooo.  He sighed and sat up.  It was time to begin the day.

            It was still early morning and the perfect time to catch some of the Rangers at their breakfasts.  Faramir planned on speaking to them about the possible location of the tree in his dream.  Aragorn had wished him to live in Emyn Arnen, so he thought it was there—recognizing the rolling, hilly landscape of his dream supported his idea.  But Emyn Arnen is vast…without narrowing my search, I could wander for days, weeks perhaps before I found that tree.  He dressed swiftly, fastening his tunic and running his good hand through his hair.  Eyeing his broken one and wiggling his thumb and pinky, he thought it would be another month at least before he’d have the use of it again.  Still hurts.  I’ll go and ask about the tree and then spend the rest of the day cramming as much Rohirric with Halorl as I can.  He’s due to leave in a week, which doesn’t give me much time.  I wish Éowyn were here to give me lessons. I wish she were here at all.

***

            They rode into Edoras in the evening.  Torches burned bright in the slow dusk as men, women and children ran out of their homes to greet them.  Éowyn, dismounting off of Líeg, found an old man, bearded grey and stooped, holding the reins.  He gazed at her seriously,

            “We were worried, my Lady.  We did not receive word for some time…and then,” She bowed her head, ashamed at his voice, “when we heard you were injured…”

            “I am sorry, sir.”  She’d not thought of her people’s reactions…I was heedless, so desperate; I should have known they would worry greatly when I was found missing.

            “It is no matter.  You are safe and did a great deed—we are proud.” He chuckled and she relaxed, realizing she would receive no hard welcome from her people.  The old man released her reins, smiling, “We soon grasped where you’d gone off to.”

            “Come sister, let us enter...” Éomer faltered, “my hall.” Éowyn patted Líeg’s neck and handed him to one of the boys running about.  Inside there would be feasting and stories told—undoubtedly she would be called upon to recite hers in all its detail—and tomorrow would be Éomer’s official crowning ceremony.  Éowyn followed her brother’s broad back and when he turned to throw an arm around her shoulders, squeezing hard in his joy, she thought, I am home.  She sobered as they climbed the stairs, watching the gold of Meduseld gleam dark bronze and russet in the sunsetting.  I will tell my tale, should it prove to be my only, and I will feast and laugh and be merry because soon I shall go again…only this time for good.  All my days here will be bittersweet and spent too swiftly. 

            “Brother?”  Éowyn’s smile reappeared and widened as they reached the great doors.  Eomer turned to look at her and she slid out from under his arm.  She was still regent here, after all, not he and she was suddenly giddy with joy at the familiar surroundings.

            “Yes?” He was suspicious of her—she giggled,

            “Don’t you mean my hall?”  Despite Théoden’s words on Pelennor, it was hers for the night at least; tomorrow at dawn her brother would be crowned.

“What?” His last hesitancy disappeared as she laughed again and challenged,

“Race you to the throne?”  He yelled as she bolted.

            “No! No, you don’t!”  Éowyn laughed as he caught her and she tugged hard against him, struggling.  He was too strong and knew her too well; he evaded her stomping feet or her thrashing elbows, panting, “Give up, yet?”

            Éowyn went limp, smirking secretly. “You can have it.”  And when he let her loose, she ran.  Éomer’s shouts followed her through the corridors, close on her heels.  He found her plunked in the great chair, giggling in anticipation, and proceeded to drag her out.  Éowyn laughed until she was breathless, lying on the floor as he shook his head, rubbing his jaw where she’d slapped at him.  The throne of Rohan was never easy to win.

            “You are the silliest girl, sister.”

            She lazily lifted her leg and kicked him, sighing in contentment.  There will be no orcs nor wizard spies, nor Gríma to fear—she was home and it was perfectly safe for the first time in years.  “Perhaps, brother, perhaps.”

***

June 5

            Éomer wrote swiftly, careful to word it both polite and pleasant, all the while cognizant of the fact he was leaving out the one thing the man would want to know.  It was amusing and yet…could I be so cruel? Oh, probably.

            She walked in, her hands stained with the first, barely ripened berries, mumbling through a mouthful, “What’re you doing?”

            “Writing a letter.” He stared at the rawhide thong, still securely around her neck—as far as he knew she’d never taken it off once except to show it to him.

            “Want me to take it to the messengers?” Éowyn licked her fingers.  Éomer smiled at his sister, amused, knowing she was never able to wait until the berries fully ripened.  He’s waiting, he thought suddenly, he would like to sit here and see her.  I liked him for a brief period…I could still like him—he seems good to her, she’s never given me a moment that she doubted her love… 

            “Yes.”  He looked back down at the polite letter.  It was missing something. “Wait, just…one more thing.”  He ripped another sheet and scrawled a message.  It would bother me…I’ve gone soft, I suppose but still, she wears the necklace.  Now, let’s hope he can read this.  Éomer chuckled and she looked at him. “Nothing. Here, take it.”

***

June 14

Halorl had left weeks before and now Faramir walked around muttering Rohirric to himself.  Of course, he could ask Aragorn, but he’d still rather not.  “Min nama is Faramir, bearn of Denethor II, ond Hordere of Ithilien.”

            “Here you are.”  He’d been found.  The King arched an eyebrow at him, coming down the stairs into the small courtyard Faramir had hidden himself in.  He sighed and replied in clumsy Rohirric.

            “Gea, her Ic eom.”

            Aragorn chuckled.  “Your accent is terrible.” Faramir frowned, turning away to mutter some more and he asked, “What? What?”

            Stopping in the center and staring irritably at the small trees, he answered. “I know, I don’t need you to tell me—Halorl was quite emphatic.”

            There was a moment of silence and Aragorn burst out, “Oh, by the Valar, are you still angry because I saw Éowyn naked? It’s been almost a month!” The King shook his head. “Let it go, Faramir!”  When he stared at the tree and did not reply, Aragorn chuckled, “Do you want to see me naked?”

            “No!” This was enough to spin him around, a look of intense disgust plastered across his face.

            “Then I can’t help you, my friend.” He pulled something out from behind his back. “But, I can give you this.”

            “Hwa…hwa is hit?” He frowned at his own vocal stumblings. Have I gotten worse? Is it possible to get worse?

            “A ærendgewrit.” Aragorn compliantly answered in Rohirric and for a moment Faramir was grateful for someone else to speak it with though he had no idea what the man had said.  He admitted as much,

            “Ic nat seo giedd.”

            Aragorn nodded, “I said it’s a letter.” He held out the package. “Hwæt Rohan.” From Rohan? Éowyn?  Faramir immediately lunged across the few feet that parted them and grabbed it; Aragorn looked startled then amused as he broke the seal and ripped off the protective covering of thicker paper.  His eyes flew across the page and his shoulders slumped in disappointment—it was from Éomer. 

            The King moved to peer at the small trees, then the bright flowers of the small courtyard. As Faramir read, he asked, “Well?  Does she already miss you in her bed?”  

Giving Aragorn an irritated look at which the man only blinked innocently, he answered, “It’s from Éomer.”

“That’s going to be a less entertaining letter. What does he say?” He whistled at nearby bird; it chirped in reply and Aragorn looked pleased.

Faramir sighed, disappointed as he read. The letter, written in a quick, rough hand, was brief and to the point—he would have predicted as much. “He tells me that Halorl reported I would need more instruction; he’s sending another man with the next group of supplies.” Aragorn interrupted,

“When?”

“About another week, according to this.” Faramir remembered the ongoing food worries and was reassured as well; he continued, “He expresses his pleasure that I’m doing so excellently in learning Rohirric and reassures me that I still have at least…” Here Faramir nearly groaned the next three words. “Two more months…in which to learn before I should be in Rohan and expected to be fluent enough to get along.” 

“And?”

“And he’s coming to the city in about a five weeks.  He also says to tell you the mares you bought are coming with him…there’s nothing here about Éowyn.” Perhaps she’s forgotten about me after all. More likely he doesn’t care to mention it or takes pleasure in knowing that without any word I’m going slowly mad.  “Wait, there’s another piece of paper.” It fluttered to the ground, a tattered scrap with only seven hastily scrawled words on it; it looked like something Éomer has stuffed in at the last second.  Stooping to pick it up, Faramir frowned as he read them, unable to understand the two verbs.  I hope it means…oh, I hope…

“What does it say?”

“You tell me.”  He handed it over, impatiently hovering.

Aragorn took it and read aloud, “Min sweostor giet lufaþ ond gemunen ge.” He smiled at Faramir’s blatantly hopeful expression. “My sister still loves and remembers you.” Beaming, Aragorn asked cheerfully, “Well, isn’t that nice of him?”

“Be quiet.”  He stared down at the bit of paper, far too delighted to be bothered by mere teasing.  This is a good day, the best since she left me.  She loves me, still remembers me…Valar and all things holy, I am terribly glad to hear it.

***

            Éowyn slipped the shirt over her head and shoved her feet in the boots, lacing them quickly.  Grabbing up her small bow and slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she slipped out of her room.  Looking both ways, she thought she was free when suddenly her brother’s voice boomed down the hallways, “Where are you going?”

            “Out.” Éowyn looked at him defiantly. She’d been cooped up in Meduseld far too long and she was dying to gallop out in the open air again.

            “Out where?” He eyed the bow and quiver. “Hunting?” Éomer’s frown appeared. “Alone?”

            “Yes, alone.” He looks at my little bow as if I was wielding a heavy spear for coursing bears!  She sighed and spoke, deliberately making her voice cheerful, “Don’t worry so, brother! I’m taking Byrga and Théodred’s hounds—they’ve been chained far too long and you know it, too.”

            Éomer hesitated, trying to find a flaw in her plan, but Éowyn knew he was unable to since she was riding the safest horse he could provide and taking the hounds, who would return on command or on their own if she were injured. Gods, will Faramir fuss like this?  I don’t know if I could take it…skies above, what if my brother visited?  The thought both amused and horrified her while he frowned. She smiled in triumph, as he sighed, “You won’t stay out too late?”

            “No.” She rolled her eyes at him; he’d gotten better at least, in three weeks, at letting her out of his sight but this was still ridiculous. How many times have I gone hunting with you and Théodred, brother?  Dozens upon dozens and in a sidesaddle no less.  I hunt little rabbits today; together we’ve pursued wolves and rogue stallions!  Relax and let me be!

            “All right, go on.” He sighed, obviously hoping for sympathy, “Leave me here alone all day.”

            She smiled blithely and walked by him, uncaring and unable to resist a small jibe. “Gladly, my King. Enjoy your halls.”  The sun was bright; it was midmorning as she took Byrga out of the barn, having saddled him, but not bridled.  She needed to concentrate on perfecting her leg and weight cues; Éowyn was thinking of when she took Líeg out of the fields. I want to be as clear and concise as possible in my aids, she thought, stroking the calm grey; remembering an old training adage, she repeated it inwardly—confusion is my enemy. Byrga stood quiet, only his ears moving as she tied the stirrups around his belly so she would not be tempted to use them. Éowyn hummed as she knotted the twine.  He was the safest horse she knew of, too; the Master of Horse had picked him especially for her brother, reasoning his calmness would temper Éomer’s rashness and for eight years it apparently had—many times her brother had come home unscathed, praising the gelding.

            “You are a good lad.” She murmured and he turned, his soft brown eye regarding her.  Éowyn walked forward, trusting him to follow and Byrga did not disappoint as she led him down the short, twisting trail between buildings to where Théodred had kept his hounds.  There were fourteen great, lank and lax dogs chained; most lay half in and half out of their thatched houses, with their heads on their paws.  She saw they’d grown fat from lack of exercise.  She whistled softly and they leapt to their feet, baying hoarsely in excitement as they recognized her scent. “Are you ready, my lads?”  For a moment, she was near tears…the sound of the dogs’ voices reminded her of riding at Théodred’s side.  He’d never been as obsessively worried over her welfare as Éomer and had often moved over to allow her to lead the chase.  I miss him so much, she thought as she unclipped the dogs one by one.  Their tongues lolled and their ears flopped as they bounded joyfully around her; once they were all freed she mounted Byrga and turned him, her lower legs gently pressing his barrel.  Obedient, he walked through of Edoras, the hounds trailing eagerly.

            At the gate she was called to, “My Lady, do you ride to fetch us supper?”  Using her weight to halt Byrga, she turned to look at the speaker. It was a young, redheaded man.  He’d paused to speak with his arms full of chunks of wood. Feeling joyful at her freedom and in the beautiful day, she jested back,

“I doubt you’d want to eat what I could fix.”

“Don’t doubt the might of a fair face, my Lady.” He smiled at her from beneath his large load of firewood. “I would eat whatever you put in front of me.”

She laughed, slightly embarrassed. “What is your name?”

“Gaer.” He bowed as low as he could with his burden. “At your service, my Lady.”

Feeling herself flush from his revering tone, she smiled as she cued Byrga back into a walk. “Have a good day, Gaer.”

“You too, my Lady—I beg you, don’t stay out too late, or no doubt our Lord will send us to fetch you—and I for one, already have a full day’s work.” He jounced his load playfully.

“I won’t.” Éowyn replied, feeling pleasant and not minding his mischievous jests. He, like all but a scarce few Rohirric men, was honorable and completely harmless to her.  But still, does no one think I will come back unharmed?  This is bordering ridiculous.

Once out of the city, she clucked and Byrga went into a lope, his grey ears pricked in pleasure at getting out of his stall.  She steered him to the north; there was a small, winding copse of trees about ten miles away where she’d hunted rabbits before.  The hounds raced alongside, their long tails whipping back and forth, their keen noses high.  Éowyn smiled; the day was perfect with a blue sky, white puffy clouds and a soft breeze, unusual in June, when the sun grew so fierce. “We will see what we will find, my friends.”

It was hours later that she dismounted next to the stream, Byrga’s nose plunging into the cold water, gulping it.  Three fat hares swung from her saddle, tied on by vines and Éowyn was quite pleased.  The hounds barreled past her, splashing both her and the grey with muddy water.  She laughed as they frolicked, growling, jumping and rolling in the cool stream; it was early afternoon and it had grown hot.  Kneeling upstream from the dirty dogs, she rinsed her bloody, grimy hands in the blissfully chill water; her reflection made her smile—she had mud on her face, twigs in her hair and burrs clinging to her clothes from the hunting.  Byrga had taken her at full speed through the thickets and she’d gripped with her knees, her head ducked as he galloped and gleefully leapt logs and dodged rocks to stay at the dogs’ heels. 

Standing and moving to the grey’s shoulder, she gripped his mane and was remounting when one of the older hounds jumped with a start, his hoarse voice rising into a piercing howl and Byrga snorted in alarm, plunging to the side and sending her back to the dirt.  Éowyn grimaced in pain, her hands scraped raw.  Confused, she began picking herself back up, a task not helped by the fourteen dogs suddenly crouching tight around her, whining low in their throats.  “Back, back.” What’s wrong? Éowyn wondered.  These dogs have faced bears and not acted in such a fashion…they seem almost afraid.  

She eyed the alert grey, “Since when do you shy, friend?”  He looked sorry, but he tossed his head, hooves stamping and the whites of his eyes showing as his nostrils flared. Ears going sharp to the right, she followed his direction as he snorted long and low and she felt herself freeze in mortification and shock.  She was not alone.

“Are you all right, my Lady?” One of the sons of Elrond had materialized in the little wood.  Behind him were a great many mounted people, each gazing at her in quiet concern; the elves were almost on top of her before the hounds and Byrga had noticed.  Acutely conscious of her bedraggled state in the presence of so many fine folk, Éowyn flushed, ducking her head. 

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”  She felt the sting of fresh abrasions all over as she stood and his bright eyes were distressed, looking her up and down—she knew what she must look like, not a lady of noble blood, but a mud-streaked savage. Blushing, she asserted, her voice still low with embarrassment,

“Yes, I’m sure.” I must seem a wild thing to them…all dirt and twigs…look how they stare! Gods, did they have to travel this way? She didn’t know his name; it made her feel even more embarrassed that she could not so much as address him properly. He smiled at her and bowed slightly as though he’d read her thoughts. Éowyn stiffened—that was Faramir’s privilege, none other’s. 

“I am Elrohir.” He laughed; it was a silvery sound. Behind him the elves were still eerily silent.  It was making her nervous.  “I know it is difficult to tell.  I’m sorry we frightened you,” He nodded to the horse and the hounds still quivering tensely. “And caused your mount to shy.”

“Who is this, brother?  Do you know her?” A female elf spoke, gazing down at Éowyn in interest.  She was beautiful, dark and lovely; her horse stood next to Elrohir’s twin, who also gazed at her. Éowyn’s hands clenched into fists; she was horribly reminded of her own filthy state in comparison to the composed, radiant elven woman. Why? Why?

“Aye, it is the brave Lady of Rohan.” Elrohir turned, his voice going affectionate. He smiled again, clearly pleased to introduce them.  “Éowyn, meet my sister, the Lady Arwen.”

 I shall die of embarrassment, she thought; this is far worse than Aragorn.

Translations: (most is done in text)

Syõõan hi afarene wæron, Ic schulan læran ge.—After they had gone, I was obligated to teach you.

Witon ná eower blod, eower cynn.—They don’t know your blood, your kin.

Næfre--never

Faramir of Gondor, fah, ná mǽgðhád mid our firas. Ná mæg in Riddermark.—Faramir of Gondor, outcast, no relationship with our people.  No family in Riddermark

 Nænig in se Riddena-mearc—Nothing in the Land of the Knights (older speech)

 God, ge eart gebetende.—Good, you are improving.

Ge wat ná hu a mearh hicgan?—You don’t know how a horse thinks?

Ic nat, Hordere—min Ides is eower cwen, ná min.—I don’t know, Stewared—my Lady is your woman, not mine.