At the news, Éomer moved quickly to the opened doors at the end of the hall, too impatient to wait. The door-wards stiffened to attention, but he barely noticed.  He was eager to see Aragorn’s perfect elven woman and to find out if she held up to inspection.  Stepping outside, he watched the group of elves ride slowly up the hill.  They were still too far for him to make out facial features, so he gazed at their mounts.  The horses were finely bred, long-limbed and graceful, if too light-boned and delicate for his taste.  They tossed small heads topped with smaller, inward curved ears, the tips almost touching; tiny bells jingled on the tack of some and others had jewels fastened to their browbands.  Inwardly he scoffed at the fanciful decorations. Rohirrim adornments were more likely to be a feather tied to the bridle or a few beads or thin ribbons, woven in manes, tails or forelocks, and whose colors were carefully chosen for their significance.

Another type of horse altogether, stout, strong and broad-backed, broke away from the group, trailed by hounds. He recognized Byrga and Éowyn instantly.  Ah, so my sister has met her already, I wonder what she thinks, he thought.  He watched her, slightly perturbed at the way she rode with her head down and shoulders caved-in, until, hastily guiding Byrga away from the elves and whistling for the dogs, Éowyn was gone from his sight.  Théodred’s hounds were subdued, not barking nor leaping about excitedly in the presence of strangers as he’d expected—their tails were low, some even between their legs as they followed and Éomer frowned.  What has happened to her?  Soon, though his attention was diverted.

***

Éowyn steered Byrga in between buildings, listening to the soft panting of the dogs as they trotted at the gelding’s heels.  The entire ride home she’d been quiet and the elves had not questioned her, though she’d felt like unsaid words had been passed through the air just around her.  Yet none had spoke aloud, undoubtedly they were waiting for the evening meal, which she dreaded.  Finally feeling free of their bright eyes, she straightened in the saddle, feeling Byrga’s slow gait and rump behind her sway gently.  Tired, she stretched her legs out and her arms over her head.  Then, coming to the dogs’ chains, she halted the grey and leaned down to speak into one black-tipped ear, her hand on his dappled shoulder. “You did well for me, Byrga. I thank you for bearing me so fast and so far, it was a great pleasure.”  He snuffled softly, turning his head so that one brown eye looked at her.  Éowyn smiled and rubbed his neck. 

Sliding down, she patted the heads of Théodred’s hounds.  Their long, feathered tails wagged slowly as she chained them one by one, giving each a word of praise and a scratch.  They’d done well and chased up many more rabbits and fowl than she could have ever brought back. “Good lads.” Éowyn gave them one last approval and walked with Byrga back to the barn to unsaddle him.

***

“Éomer King!” One of Elrond’s sons called cheerfully up to him, dismounting from his dainty grey.  It tossed its fine-boned head and shifted on small hooves.  Is that a mare? He wondered, appalled and spotting no obvious conformation flaws. What kind of people have so many perfect mares as to waste them on riding, not to mention take them out of their lands? Éomer began walking down the broad stairs, so as not to appear rude or disdainful from his high standing.  Around the elves a small crowd had gathered, gazing at them in awe.  In the afternoon sun the elves seemed to glitter, to burn brighter than the mortals around them did. “How goes it in the noble land of Rohan?”

Stepping off the last stair, he noticed the crowd had grown in seconds. Irritated that he didn’t know the twin’s name, he answered as courteously as he could, saying, “Good, my friend, it goes good.  Welcome back to Meduseld, the Golden Hall of my people.” He hesitated, not knowing how they would wish their horses treated and knowing it might be dangerous for them to be allowed to roam; he wasn’t thinking of horse thieves, but of a stud breaking loose to get to one of the elven mares. Or even vice versa, Eomer thought, eyeing a thick-necked stallion as it pranced under an elf.  He looks very fine, but I would not have our mares casually bred, no matter how straight his legs or well muscled his haunches. “Tell me, would you rather stable your horses tonight or keep them in a pen …I would not leave them out to run.”  He did not call for the boys; Rohirric horses preferred their own masters to handle them and Éomer assumed the elven horses would be the same.

“The stable would be quite sufficient.”  This voice was deep, deep and inscrutable as the darkness between the stars and abruptly Éomer found himself almost face to face with an elven lord as he lightly dismounted.  There was power, held soft like a silk glove over an iron fist; it glinted in his dark eyes. 

He came close to stammering his reply,  “C-choose any stalls you like…they are well bedded.”

“Thank you. Daughter, are you coming?” Elrond turned, expectant.

“Yes.” The voice froze him and her eyes, focused on his, rather than the elven lord, were bright like stars and yet remote; they made it worse. Éomer couldn’t move, couldn’t speak under her gaze. From what did Aragorn spin a net to capture her? He wondered, staring at the elven woman. Gods above, earth below me, she is not real!  Dark-haired, pale-skinned and utterly, utterly beautiful, captivating...yet, he had the overwhelming feeling that if he put out his hand to touch, it would go right through her.  Arwen Undómiel...the Evenstar...she was a bright light flashing in the far sky and nothing of his world. Éomer was enchanted until she looked away.

It was as though he’d been thrown from a horse—he wavered, briefly unsteady, and only then noticing that most of the elves had gone into the stables and except for the murmuring crowd, he stood alone outside Meduseld.  What…what was that?

***

Éowyn hesitated at the barn—it was full of the elves.  Byrga nosed her side, urging her forward. I know, you want that heavy leather saddle off of you; for his sake she entered.  Grateful for the wide aisleways, she led the grey to his stall.  Around her were soft, light voices.  She listened to their language as she freed the hares from the saddle, untied the stirrups and then pulled the saddle and blanket from Byrga’s sweaty back.  Walking the tack to its place, she dodged elves.  They smiled or nodded at her, a courteous people to not stare at her still bedraggled state, Éowyn thought.  Strange to her ears, their language was lilting and merry, always though, with a faint and odd undercurrent of sadness.  Back in the stall, Byrga nosed his hay and she took care of her mount, taking her time in picking the burrs and twigs from his mane and tail. 

“The horse was right.” The voice startled her and she nearly dropped the comb. Éowyn turned, to see Elrohir, or at least she assumed it was he, leaning over the stall door.  He smiled at her in a friendly way.  She looked at Byrga, who was dozing now, one hind-leg cocked. The elf’s words had made no sense.

“What did you say?”

His eyes were shining even in the dimly lit stall. “He said you would care for him before you cared for yourself.”

“He said?” Éowyn was skeptical. “Byrga spoke to you?”

“Not at first.  He was shy.” Elrohir watched her begin currying the grey’s rumpled coat.  The dried sweat crumbled away; white salt crusted to his chest, hindquarters and flanks went into the air and she wrinkled her nose.  After a few minutes of his watching, she spoke, feeling far more relaxed with just one elf,

“I had heard elves had strange ways with beasts.” She gave him a quick, sideways glance.  Elrohir was leaning on the door, his head on his arms, dark hair falling over his shoulders.

“Not strange.  Just unlike.” He chuckled; it was a golden sound, different from the laugh she’d heard in the woods. “Your ears could not hear the words your hounds cried about the wildness of their mistress and her adamant will—they warned any and all to flee you or be slain, you were so fierce!  My sister was quite jealous to see you run them.”

This halted her scrubbings and Byrga flicked an ear in question. “What?”  Éowyn could not imagine the elegant and stately Arwen as being envious of her in any way. I was sprawled in the mud, surrounded by dogs, scratched up and filthy and he says she was jealous! 

“It was she that begged us alter our course to see you.  When we heard the dogs’ voices crying and the sound of your horse’s feet thundering at speed, she had to watch the chase.”  He must have seen her disbelief, so he added, “Don’t let the finery fool you, my Lady.  I imagine in a short while you yourself will be in a respectable dress and,” He smiled and his teeth were white, “were you not an hour ago flying behind baying hounds, urging your mount to his swiftest?”

“Yes, I suppose.”  She gave Byrga one last pat, having finished his grooming and moved to the door.  Elrohir stepped back, opening it for her, seeing as she had her arms full of rabbits and her bow.  In the aisle she saw his twin murmuring to one of the stalled horses.   Its ears were forward and its nostrils quivered in silent reply. Éowyn watched, jealous.  If only I could speak with Líeg like that, it would be so easy to teach him.  Elrohir smiled down at her; he was taller than she’d thought with his slender build.

“We enjoyed watching you run them very much.”  It was truthful and she felt herself smile.  It had been grand and she’d been expecting more quiet reproaches than praise for her mannish behavior.  Especially after his sister, Arwen…she was so elegant and ladylike…surely they are just being considerate when they speak to me.  She did not wish to waste the nice words though, beaming,

“Thank you.”  The elves followed her out of the stable, Éowyn carrying her hares and bow with her quiver slung over her shoulder.

“Will we be dining on your catch tonight, Lady?” This time it was the other twin, his voice low, soft; there was a friendly smile playing on his lips.

She looked at the three limp rabbits, mortified at the idea of the fine elven folk eating them. “No. Oh, no.”

“Why not?” Elrohir asked, “They were skillfully gotten.  We watched, remember?”

“They are not fit—”

“Nonsense!” He chuckled again, as if it all were a merry affair, meant for laughter and her embarrassment nothing but foolishness. “But then, what will you do with them?”

She stopped, frowning and then spotted a soldier nearby; he was gazing at the elves at her heels in open astonishment. “You…tell me, do you know a man named Gaer?”

It took him a moment to pry his eyes from her companions. “No, my Lady, but I can find him for you…”

Éowyn nodded, “When you do, give him these.”  She handed him the hares; the man bowed his acknowledgement, still never truly looking away from Elrohir and his twin.  His expression was a combination of wonderment and wary intimidation.

“I will, my Lady.”

“Thank you.” Elrohir and his brother following, Éowyn walked back to the hall.  She was already imagining every gown she owned and finding them shabby comparisons to Arwen’s traveling clothes.  I shall look like the daughter of a poor farmer; she winced, dreading the upcoming meal.

***

Éomer gazed at her as she touched the great, vertical slash in the otherwise smoothly finished and polished wood of the throne’s base.  It was something he’d seen so many times that he hadn’t noticed it in years.  The mar was deep and had been intentionally left as a reminder, he knew, that their hall had been captured once and could be so again.  Arwen’s delicate fingers traced down the deep, jagged cut and she frowned in obvious puzzlement, looking around at the elaborate and flawless carvings and reliefs throughout the rest of the hall.  He wanted to speak, but wasn’t sure his voice would hold steady.  She is so beautiful and yet…

“Are you going to say something, Lord Éomer?”  She turned with a faint and somehow weary smile. “Or will you simply admire me from a far while I wonder and remain ignorant?”

He preferred the latter; Éomer spoke reluctantly, “It is left that way as a symbol, my Lady.”

“Of what exactly?” Arwen touched the marred wood again. 

“Of how simply our homes and lives can be taken.” He saw she wanted more, so he elaborated, “Wulf, a traitor of Dunlendish and Northern descent, brought war to our people and drove them from Meduseld and Edoras.” He looked at the deep gash. “This mark was from where he sat on the high seat and rested his axe after murdering the son of the King.  He was in the throne for an entire, cursed winter—a terrible and long winter while my people were under siege in the Hornburg and Dunharrow.”

“I see why the damage is left, then.” Arwen took a step toward him, closing the wide gap between himself and her. Éomer’s instincts bade him to retreat from this intimidatingly lovely woman and for politeness’ sake he ignored them.  “What did your people do?”

Remembering the story, he continued it, “In secret, the King’s sister’s son, Fréaláf, descended from the Hold and killed Wulf. Our enemies were easily overthrown without their lord.”

She gazed around at the other carvings, the wall hangings, and the intricate and interwoven designs. Éomer was looking at her. “Meduseld is beautiful.”

“So are you.” He hadn’t meant to speak and regretted it.

Arwen didn’t appear surprised, turning and almost immediately asking, “Do you love me, then?”  It was though she was challenging him to something, but Éomer wasn’t sure he understood the dare.

He answered truthfully; it was the only thing he could do. “No.”

This surprised her.  “No, Éomer?”

With a low laugh, he answered again truthful and unaffected. “I couldn’t imagine loving you.”

If his earlier words had surprised her, this sent her back a step, hand rising to her breast as though in shock…but in her eyes was only a deepening interest and… Is that hope? He wondered in confusion. If anything he would have expected her to be offended at his blatant rudeness—he should have said something nice and polite, referring to her beauty that forced him to speak and drove his rational mind away.  That would have been lies.  He’d recovered from the first shock of seeing her. “Tell me why not, my King.”

“You’re not real.”  This was the core of his silent objections and growing obsessions with her.  Too fair, too shining, too, too much everything…this was no mortal woman before him and he was painfully aware of it. 

“No? Here, try me.” She held out her hand, as if for him to kiss or take in one of his. Éomer ignored it.  He didn’t particularly want to touch her; he still imagined his hand might just go right through her pale skin. It is foolish, yes, but I can’t help the thought.

“No.”

Arwen wore a slowly growing smile; she was clearly delighted and he didn’t understand.  I realize that she wouldn’t want me to love her…but why does my rudeness not offend? This woman, surely with her beauty none has dared insult her like I have just done… There was a burst in his head, a glimpse of something he could not quite see that explained her behavior, but her words distracted him. “You’re sure don’t love me?”

“Yes.” It was as simple a thing as he could imagine.  I cannot lie, she would sense it.

“Good.” She laughed; even the sound was fair to his ears and he felt stuck, floating in a strange daze with her, high above the mortal realm.  It was not a pleasant feeling; he didn’t like heights. “I have far too many that love me already…Éomer, noble King of Rohan, I bid you, I beg you…” She shook her radiant head, dark hair gleaming, as it swung, “Never take back your words.”

 I could not if I tried…you are the most beautiful of women in face and form and yet…he looked hard at her.  You are not of my kind at all and I could not love a woman such as you—you are a star, swinging in the heavens and I naught but a small and mortal man looking upwards.  “I will not, you have my oath.”

“Excellent.  Friends, then?”

“Of course, if you wish.” He watched her smile and wondered if Aragorn somehow brought her close in to him, close enough to see without being blinded by her great loveliness and alienness. But how?  It would be like roping the moon, spearing a star...impossible. 

***

She’d thought she’d gotten all the leaves and twigs out of her hair, but clever elven fingers plucked out a bit of tree moss not two seconds after she’d arrived at the King’s table.  Elrohir smiled at her side, flicking it away and Éowyn flushed slightly; she’d not had time for a proper bath, only to change and scrub with a cloth.  She sat at her brother’s left with Elrond in the place of honor on his right; straight across from her was the impeccable Arwen and Éowyn felt the strong urge to keep her head down and stay silent.  But Elrohir made it impossible.  As they began to eat, he asked, “Lady Éowyn, tell me, where did you get such fine hounds?”

Her voice seemed very loud; he and she were the only ones speaking and she felt all eyes were upon them.  She cut her meat, feeling dreadfully observed. “They…they were Théodred’s, my cousin’s.”

He seemed disappointed, “So there are no others?”

“None that I know. He bred them himself.” She didn’t know what he was getting at and Arwen was looking at her.  Éowyn was nervous and irritated at herself for feeling in such a fashion—was this not her home, her hall?  “They are cross-bred from two types of dogs—the hounds my people usually use and another found only in the hills in the Westemnet, near Fangorn.”

“Pity.  I’d hoped to beg or buy a few from you.”  This was a surprise and he saw it. “I have hunted before, Lady…” Elrohir smiled, “I enjoyed it.”

“I regret that I cannot say the same, brother.” Arwen spoke for the first time, without looking up, and Éowyn writhed inwardly—even the woman’s voice was velvety and soft; her own sounded harsh in comparison.  I thought I could be a rival to this woman?  Although she no longer had any desire to be Aragorn’s wife, the thought was enough to make her cringe. Gods, I was a fool!  Oddly, Arwen’s simple words had a darkening effect on her elven kin—Elrohir immediately went quiet and Elrond almost wore a scowl.  Éomer, apparently struck silent until this very moment, spoke,

“What did you fetch, sister?”

“Three hares. I gave them away.” It sounds quite pitiful, she thought to herself.

He hesitated before asking, yet wanting an answer. “Did Byrga enjoy it?”

Now she smiled, remembering the grey’s swift, bounding strides. But the meaning of his question was clear and she sobered, saddening.  Kings of the Mark were traditionally mounted upon stallions, not geldings—Éomer would no longer be riding his friend Byrga.  “Yes, he did, brother.”

“Good.” He smiled at her, hopeful, “You will take him out often for me?”

“Yes.” Líeg is in the field, whom else do I have to ride? I cannot stay out of the saddle for long it is too much fun.  “Of course.”  Her brother’s obvious relief was her reward for such a small courtesy that she was glad to do anyhow. I will ride Byrga until I leave…than I suppose he will be retired to roam with the spare geldings in the Wold.  He is fourteen but only just past his prime…it is a shame.

Arwen’s words seemed to have upset her kin enough to keep them politely quiet the rest of the meal; as for Éowyn, she was lost in her own thoughts.  Two more months…what shall I do?  The late foals will be born in a month and a half…they will be here in Edoras for me to handle but until then…I suppose I could help Éomer pick out his stud.  Or I could go hawking, have a sword made to replace mine, I could…what can I do?  She speared a bit of vegetable.  I miss Faramir, I miss his company…when he is here I will have plenty to occupy me.  Feeling the dolphin, warm and solid, move on her breast with her breathing, Éowyn thought, when he is here I will have to leave.  She looked down at her plate, no longer sure what she wanted—Faramir to come quickly or not come at all. 

The next day Éowyn dug up yet another gown in an admittedly late attempt to show she was not a savage; it was an annoyance since she’d resolved to wear them as little as possible this summer, to enjoy her freedom.  Plus, the things were dreadfully hot compared to the roomy men’s clothes.  Long and a soft, creamy white it was the lightest and most comfortable of all she owned.  Pulling her heavy hair off of the back of her neck, she fantasized about taking a pair of scissors to it, simply cutting the entire flaxen mane away as Éomer had done once as a prank.  I could use his sword, it worked quite well before…hmm, I wonder what my dear Faramir would think. She smiled just imagining and twisted the mass of gold up into a bun.  Wavy strands escaped her fingers as always, but they were not enough to annoy.  Looking in the mirror, she thought she appeared presentable—clean and dressed like a lady should.   Still, when she saw Arwen and one of her brothers standing in the hall, Éowyn felt like a handmaid in the presence of a fairy queen.  Nervously tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, she would have slunk away to find Éomer but the twin called out to her, “Lady Éowyn!” He turned, “Here she is now, sister.”

“I see her.”  Arwen looked briefly amused.

“If you need me, I will be with…”

“Yes, yes.” She nodded absently; she was focused on Éowyn, who had come to stand near them.

 “Yes?” Eyeing the elven woman, she observed, I am taller than she is…she is more curved than I am and far more attractive all around. These were things she hadn’t noticed before and wished she didn’t now.   Finding that she’d been nervously rubbing the dolphin pendant, Éowyn lowered her hands, lightly clasping them and straightening.  Théodred has not been here to remind me to act like a lady; he used to do that every day, If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have any manners at all, she thought.  Feeling foolish, she waited.  What does she, could she want with me? I still don’t believe she was envious of me. She looked beyond lovely in a soft blue gown with a gleaming silver band across her brow.  Éowyn felt terribly plain in her cream dress, the rawhide thongs of Faramir’s necklace descending into her bosom. Arwen smiled; it was very friendly and gracious.

“We were not properly introduced last night, Éowyn…” She paused then added almost hastily, “May I call you Éowyn? I meant no offence.”

“Yes.” She found herself smiling, though still painfully apprehensive, “None taken, my Lady.”

“Please, call me Arwen.”

Repeating obediently, “Arwen”, she thought, how could any man look at another woman after her?  She will soon be in Gondor with Faramir…perhaps he won’t think I am beautiful any longer—next to her I am spindly, no breasts or hips, boyish and, and ungainly!  Look at her, she doesn’t wear anything to emphasize her beauty, not that she needs to… He asked if I had such things—rouge, powders…maybe he thinks I need them, and if he doesn’t he certainly will after seeing her…oh, gods, what am I thinking? I felt his love…it was strong and went deep…he wept inside when we parted.  I’m being silly…but still, what if?  What if he changes—Arwen speaking broke her downward spiraling thoughts; Éowyn was grateful to come back to attention.  

“Can…can we go outside?  It seems like a nice day.”

“Of course.” Arwen had seemed almost hesitant about her question, as though she would have been refused.  Éowyn was perplexed as they walked together—why would I say no? Why wouldn’t I wish to get out of the Hall?  After a few steps, Arwen spoke again,

“I hope we can be friends, you and I.  I won’t know anyone in Minas Tirith other than the members of the Fellowship and my kin—” Arwen glanced sideways at her, a small, hopeful smile on what Éowyn dejectedly observed were perfectly shaped, rose-colored lips. Mine are thin and pale. “And…it would be nice to have a woman friend.”

She had no idea how to respond. I’ve never had woman friends. What would that be like?  She seems likable...what do I say? “Yes.” Arwen didn’t seem perturbed by her quietness.  Soon they were descending the stairs and out in the soft morning sunshine.  Éowyn asked, since it was her responsibility to entertain her guest, “What would you like to do?”  Arwen’s answer never came.

“My Lady!” It was one of the soldiers; he was panting, out of breath and leaning over with his hands splayed on his knees.  “Lady Éowyn, please, oh, thank the gods I saw you there…do you know where our Lord is? The Master of Horse was supposed to be with him.”

“No, but what is the problem?”  It was obviously something serious and she forgot all about Arwen standing at her side. 

Huffing, he explained, “We need to ask about putting down one of the broodmares—it was injured this morning, but if the Master wishes her saved for her foal…”

 “Where is she?”  Éowyn became blind to all her petty worries, feeling herself come to life at the crisis. 

The man hesitated, then answered, “Almost an hour from here...she was still bleeding badly when I left, though we are trying to stop it…but we can not free her from her misery until we have permission.  She—she carries a line the Master favors and the foal is only a week out.”  The words “it may be too late, though” went unspoken but not unheard.

“Get yourself a fresh mount.” She had no time to change; Byrga would carry her sidesaddle. “You will take me and I will make the decision.” Let the Master howl at me, Éowyn thought grimly, if she is terribly injured, I will not allow the mare to suffer.  Utterly forgetting Arwen, she walked at the soldier’s side until the elven woman spoke,

“Can I go?”

Éowyn stopped. There was no room for assumptions or humiliation any longer. “Can you ride fast?”

“Yes.” She did not seem offended by the blunt question or the equally blunt assent.

“Then you can come.”  If she wishes to befriend me, then let her see who I am.

When they came to the encampment over an hour later, the man halted.  She dismounted off of a lean chestnut, impatient with her skirt and Arwen slid off of the safe Byrga, walking after her.  Striding fast, Éowyn barely glanced at the camp—it was the usual herders’: light tents, the dogs tied for foaling season, horses grazing nearby under watchful eyes.  To the side, under the shade of a stunted tree, stood the mare, her head hanging and ears limp; the ground around her was stained with blood.  Numerous, deep bites covered her dulled coat; the worst was her throat, it was almost ripped out and Éowyn winced in pained sympathy.  Arwen touched the mare’s forehead gently, murmuring.  

The man spoke, “Wild dogs, my Lady. They came two nights ago and we drove them off; this morning they came again and the herd ran…this one was heavy with foal and fell. We had to beat the cursed things off of her. Already men are hunting them.”

“I see.” Éowyn walked slowly around the mare, taking in her wounds.  They were many and though the herders had cleaned, stitched and smeared salve on them, she seemed disturbingly unresponsive.  She checked her gums, finding them pale and took her pulse—it was weak and erratic.  The mare’s bulging side moved. 

Arwen said softly, her fingers twined in the mare’s mane, “The foal still lives, but she is weak.”

“I know.”  She knew, too, what she had to do. In this herd there would be many mares with colts at their sides that could provide enough milk for two. Turning to the herders who had come, she ordered,  “Bring me a cleaned water skin, some hot water and a sharp knife.”  The Master shall have his foal, she thought.  The mare I cannot and will not let suffer—the threat of infections aside, the flies alone would be sheer torture and she is not young.  I know what to do, thankfully.

***

It was almost nightfall by the time the door-wards reported his sister and Arwen returned to Edoras and he leapt from the high seat.  At the door Éomer frowned, his heart nearly stopping with worry at the dark blood and filth stained over the front of Éowyn’s gown. Taking the stairs two at a time, he was soon at her side. “What happened?”

“One of the mares. No one could find the Master; I had to cut her throat and pull the foal.”  It was exhausted and sorrowful. Éowyn’s bright blue eyes were dulled.

“Sister.” He hugged her in sympathy, resting his chin on her head. “I’m sorry.”

Arwen, no longer quite as radiant with her gown just as bloody as Éowyn’s, came behind. Her voice was weary, too, but he thought, almost admiring. “We…she saved the little one.”   She sat on Byrga, he saw, with a tiny, wide-eyed colt balanced over the grey’s withers.  Behind his sister’s horse stood a strange mare with a foal at her side.  The nanny mare, he realized. 

“Good.” He kept his arm around Éowyn’s slumped shoulders, proud of her.  “We can put it—” 

“Sister!” If he had been worried, Arwen’s brothers were horrified.  They vaulted down the stairs and converged on Byrga. “Where have you been? Are you injured—the blood—”

“We will send for Ada—”

“No! I’m fine, I’m not hurt.” She looked annoyed and Byrga shifted, nervous with the crowding. “You will not send for Ada.” Arwen’s voice hardened, “Get the foal down if you wish to help, Elladan!”

“I’m not that bad, am I?” Éomer whispered into his sister’s ear as the twins carefully lowered the spraddle-legged colt.  It wobbled and Byrga nosed it curiously.  The foal stumbled to his flanks, pushing its fuzzy nose under his belly, searching for a nipple.  The gelding’s ears went flat and he moved away.  Éomer gestured for the waiting man to bring the surrogate mare closer—the little colt was thin and like all new foals, undoubtedly starving.

“No.” She hugged him with a tired smile. “You’re worse.” She watched the colt, “We let him nurse as much as he could before we came.  I got his mother’s milk and he drank that as well—that’s why it took all day.”

“Good.” Without her first milk he may have gotten ill.  He jested, “I doubt that I’m worse.” She smiled still, but it was weak; she was tired.  While Elrond’s sons fussed over an increasingly irritated Arwen, trying to help her from the saddle as she slapped at their hands in fury, he fretfully asked, “Have you eaten, dear sister?”

“No.” She leaned against his side. “I wasn’t hungry.”

He took his arm away, shooing gently, “Go, then. I will take care of the horses—you go bathe and rest and get something to eat.”

It was a measure of her exhaustion that Éowyn did not argue with his nurse-maiding. “All right.”  Éomer watched his sister walk slowly up the stairs and then turned back to the elves.  Arwen was on the ground now, leaning against Byrga’s grey neck.  Her brothers were still hovering, as though the sight of her smeared with dirt and blood was entirely foreign and frightening to them.  Walking up to his horse, he took the reins, “I will take them, my Lady, you go on.”

“Thank you, Éomer.” She smiled.  Elrohir and Elladan quickly ushered her away as he led the geldings, placing them in stalls.  Then, his voice at turns commanding and cajoling, Éomer managed to get the two foals and the nanny mare to follow him into the barn.  Tonight the little fellow will have her all to himself; the other colt is bigger and strong.  He walked backwards gripping the halter and watching.  He is wobbly, but still, the little one follows well, he might be all right. 

Later that night, missing her at the evening meal, he went to check on Éowyn and found her asleep. Poor sister, he thought—picking up the blankets, he covered her and slipped quietly from the room.  Arwen was standing in the hall, looking apprehensive as he silently shut the door.  “I’d hoped to speak with her.”

He shook his head, keeping his voice low. “She sleeps.”

“Oh.” It was disappointed and he wondered curiously, but Arwen left.

***

Éowyn was in the barn early the next morning, leading the mare and her foals to the small, nearby corral.  The sun and fresh air were the best things for the colt; they would help him grow strong.  Tiny, he pranced on soft hooves, his fuzzy tail and short neck held high.  The nanny mare was calm and quiet as both the foals nursed at once, a good mother, Éowyn thought.  She leaned on the fence and watched.  Behind her, the elves were already preparing to leave, saddling their horses and speaking in their strange, flowing language. 

“Éowyn?”

“Yes?” She turned to face Arwen, bracing herself for the woman’s beauty. 

“I’m sorry our time was not more pleasant…but,” She smiled, “I…thank you for allowing me to help.”

Puzzled, Éowyn replied, “You’re welcome.”  Why wouldn’t I have let her help?  She calmed the mare and that aided me greatly. 

The elven woman seemed hesitant, “I suppose I won’t see you for a while, so…goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Arwen.  Have a safe journey.” Éowyn smiled at her, truly wishing her well. She cannot help that she is so lovely and I so plain, I should not be so petty.

Elrohir called and Arwen nodded, “Thank you—I must go.”  To the side Éomer bowed to Elrond and the elves were mounting.  Éowyn watched them ride away, sparkling in the morning sun and as they slowly disappeared, Edoras was once more a city of men.  I cannot say I will miss her, I do not know her, but she was a great help...more than I expected. Ah, well, with this foal I have something to occupy me for a few weeks until he is big enough to go out.  She turned back to the corral and watched the colt walk unsteadily on his long, thin legs.  And after that? Maybe I’ll have another sword made for my use when my brother leaves.

***

June 22

Deolir was a markedly less good-natured man in comparison to Halorl. He’d met him outside the first level stable; men herded goats and sheep inside it, loudly calling back and forth in Rohirric.  Faramir was happy to note that he could recognize some of the words. A man roughly his own age dismounted and looked around.  He was not one of the herders, nor the soldiers sent to guard the men and animals.  Faramir straightened, stepping forward to catch his attention; in his black and silver he knew he must be startlingly detectable in the Rohirric sea of green, white and leather brown.  The Rohirrim immediately saw him and walked to stand before Faramir, his horse following docilely. Gazing steadily at him, his voice was cool as he spoke, “I am Deolir. My Lord has sent me to instruct you in our language and history.”

            “Wilcume, Deolir. Ic þancie þe for eower lar.” Faramir smiled politely, wincing inside at his clumsy pronunciation.  There was no hint of the friendliness that had overflowed from Halorl in the man before him’s eyes.  I think I shall miss Halorl, he was always pleasant at least, but perhaps it was because he already knew me.   

            Deolir actually looked pained at his greeting and thanks. “He was right to send another.” Faramir had no reply to the slightly rude statement, so he simply kept the amicable expression on his face. “Did Halorl speak to you about our people’s history?”

            “No, he stuck mostly to language, he only had two weeks in which—”

            His voice was sudden, cutting through Faramir’s. “In Rohirric, Hordere.  Ge neot se geþiode.”

            Well, at least he’s serious about it…though rather annoyingly so. Hesitantly, well aware of his limited vocabulary, he began, “Na, hé dyde ná, Deolir. Efne geþiode.”

            “God.” A young man trotted by and Deolir called out to him, “Here, take my horse.”  He handed the gelding over and looked impatiently at Faramir. “Where do you want to do this?” 

            His directness was a bit unexpected and Faramir asked, “How long do you have?”

            “Rohirric.” It was sharp and before he could even begin to frame his question in the other language, Deolir answered, “A monað, Hordere.”

            A…a…a month.  All right and he wants to get started.  That’s good, right? Of course it is.  “I have…” He stopped himself, remembering.  What’s the word for study? I don’t know…how about room?  Oh, right. “Ic hæbbe a lecgan.”

                        “God. Let us go.”

***

                        Éomer climbed up onto the fence to sit at his sister’s side.  Below them, inside the small paddock was Master Thohl.  Éowyn pointed at one blood bay stallion; he bucked high and kicked out with both heels as she asked, “If you pick that one, can I borrow him?”

            Thohl glanced up, chewing on a grass stem. The older man shook his head, “If he picks him, you will be Queen.  He is not right for you, my Lord…” He waved at the men by the gate. “See that one? The red bay? Take him out!”

            “That only leaves five.” Éomer surveyed his options from the Eastemnet.  They were all three years old, leaving him a year to train them, as usual, before he first rode his choice.  Three greys, a light chestnut and a rare black stud were snorting and trotting around the pen. 

            “I like that one.”  Éowyn pointed at the black.  “He is clever.”  The young stallion had halted before the others and was standing in the center of the paddock.  His brown eyes were focused upon them, rather than his racing, bucking kin.

            “He’s calmed the quickest.” Thohl backed her opinion, but Éomer frowned.

            “He’s too narrow built—I like a wide horse, gives you better balance.”

            She argued, “They’re all narrow…they will fill out in a year or so.”

            “If you like him so much—” Éomer stopped, not wanting her mounted upon a stallion.  “Not him, take him out.”  Thohl waved and pointed at the black.  The men rode in, swinging ropes and soon lead the stud out.  The remaining four galloped in circles. 

            After a while, he admitted,  “I don’t think I like any of them.” 

            The Master sighed, “Well, we still have many in the Wold…”

            “Good.” Éowyn smiled playfully, “Let’s go there and see them, brother.”

            “We will have them brought here.”  He didn’t like the idea of her wandering around those big fields right under the noses of men who went weeks or months without seeing a woman.  Trustworthy, honorable or no, I don’t want you around there.  Éomer turned and jumped down from the fence.  “Let’s go back home.”

            She made a face, but followed.

***

June 25

Faramir stared at the white tree.  Its leaves rustled softly in the wind and as he listened to the sound it seemed like the whole feel of the city was changing, warming.  There was another sound—he looked up.  The King’s banner flapped, gleaming sable where he’d been long accustomed to seeing the silvery Steward’s flag. It did not bother him.  Perhaps it should, but it doesn’t.  He turned back to the tree.  He’d watched many men uproot and drag away the old one; their backs had been bent and the ropes straining under the weight. 

It was the gaping hole in the ground that bothered me, he thought.  Faramir had the sense that things were coming to an end…no, no, just beginning, he corrected himself.  My life, my life free from dread and battle is just beginning…isn’t it?  Rangers had marked the rough location of the tree in his dream on maps and he planned on pinpointing it soon, but Deolir was not Halorl, cheerful and happy for a break—Deolir was a harsh, determined instructor.  At least, his unrelenting focus had taught Faramir more Rohirric, language and history, in the last three days than he’d thought possible.  Watching the water splash and leap, he marveled at how it looked delighted to flow around the sapling.

Everything has changed and will change further. Æghwa awentt ond wile awendan furþur. However, this only made him feel tired because the one thing he fervently wished to change—the yawningly empty place by his side—had not yet.  Faramir looked beyond the white tree, beyond the walls of the city that had never been his and over the fields in the direction of Rohan.  I miss you.

Mid-year’s day, night

            He’d escaped Deolir’s clutches for the wedding and now he sat at the table and was silent—it was not that Faramir wasn’t glad for Aragorn, he could well feel the man’s joy.  No, it was more that he was weary and could not help but a little bitterness at the sight of the King’s journey ending.  They danced, the King and Queen and it was as though they floated to the lilting music.  Faramir watched, envious.  Though, I am not envious as others are…now he looked at Arwen alone.  She was beauty incarnate, but he found he did not respond to it.  She is the night, cool and composed, with flickering stars on her brow and in her eyes.  And, look at the Lady Galadriel, is she not the calm day?  Gold there is, yet not the strain I desire.  Fair in form and face are these elven women and yet…they do not change and I can feel it. 

            My beloved is a tempestuous storm.  A foaming river, rising at the banks to flood and then lying peaceful in the sunshine, a sweet flower, a warm wind…Éowyn has not everlasting perfection and I am grateful—these two, Arwen and Galadriel are the sun, the stars…my love is the earth herself.  Blossoming, changing, warm or cold…she is mine and will grow old with me.  I am surrounded by delicate, immortal beauty, and the woman I desire most is undoubtedly in man’s clothes at this very moment, with an adorable smudge of dirt on her cheek.  Faramir smiled at the image, sipping his chill wine. 

            “Hello.” Pippin climbed into a chair.  “Isn’t she beautiful, Faramir?”

“Yes.”  How else could I answer?

As the hobbit spoke again his voice was awed. “Even more so than when we were in Rivendell.  Don’t you think so, Merry?”    

            Merry had scaled another man-sized chair to settle on Faramir’s other side.  They’d hardly let him alone since Éowyn had left—he guessed he was a surrogate companion. The Brandybuck was not as enthusiastic. “I suppose.”

            Pippin hardly noticed his reply, saying, “I bet I could write her a song—it would be the best song ever.”  

            “How would you start?”  The elder hobbit asked, nibbling on a bit of cake.  Faramir doubted Pippin heard him.

            “Her hair is so straight and long, look.  My sisters would murder to have straight hair, especially Pervinca.  The color…onyx, pitch, ebony, sable, jet, coal…”

            Flaxen, straw, gold… It came from Merry’s mind, not his own.  Faramir smiled faintly; he was not the only one who wasn’t desperately in love with the Queen.  The song ended and Aragorn walked his wife back to the table, not taking his eyes off of her for an instant.  They were smiling and happy and Faramir drained his glass.  I think I shall get drunk—I am a self-centered fool, after all, like Father always said.  He smiled back at Aragorn’s glance, making it as natural and unforced as possible.  Pippin murmured to himself and Merry sighed when the King spoke,  

            “Remember today, my friends.” I shall.  Aragorn deserves happiness, he fought long and hard for it—still, it is like watching a runner end a race knowing my own is just beginning…though I beg the Valar my own struggle to my wife’s side will be neither as hard nor as long.

***

July 6

“Just…don’t do anything.” She rolled her eyes and twirled a strand of her hair around her fingers as Éomer nervously paced.  “I mean it, I don’t want to come back and have you lying in bed, sister, all broken up or ill or something.” Gods, she thought, just go!  Uncle has waited long enough to be returned to our people’s land…brother, go! But she said nothing, wisely keeping silent as he lectured. “No riding alone,” Éomer glared sternly, “not even on Byrga; no hunting, no leaving Edoras—you are not going to the Wold or anywhere else…” He continued and Éowyn tuned him out.  What am I going to do for a month without him?  She smiled suddenly. Please. What won’t I do? “Are you listening, sister?”

“Yes, yes, do nothing and rot.”  With a sigh, she flopped into the throne.

He halted his pacing and gazed at her in exasperation. “No. What did I say?”

She slumped in the royal seat, resisting the temptation to sit sideways and throw her legs over the armrest. It needs a cushion, this thing is hard as stone. “You said you were leaving.”

“No, I said…” He frowned.

            “Oops.” She smiled. The horns blew, announcing the readiness of the men outside and Éowyn stood, laying her hands on his shoulders and saying seriously, “Brother. Go, get our Uncle, fetch Théoden—he has been too long away and surely his spirit cannot rest easy in those strange halls of the Southern men.”

            This moved him and Éomer scowled, “All right…just promise…”

            “Yes, yes, yes.” She sighed. You are worse than an old hen, brother of mine.  “Give me a hug, brother and go.  They’re waiting.”

            He did as she’d ordered, hugging her tightly, fiercely. “I love you, sister.”

            “I love you, too.  I’ll miss you.”  In the back of her mind, though, Éowyn rejoiced.  A month!  A month of true freedom! She smiled as soon as his back was turned.  What won’t I do, indeed. There is a bare spot on the wall; I think I shall hang a great buck there or maybe a wolf’s head!  But first, I will smile sweetly and wave goodbye to my dear, overprotective brother.  Following him outside, she stood at the doors and raised her arm in acknowledgement to his salute as he mounted his horse; it was not his permanent stallion, but a calm, substitute stud. 

            Éomer’s voice rang, “Come, we go to fetch our Lord, to return our King unto his rightful place!”  The men cried aloud to their mounts and the éored full of the finest knights in all the Mark rode away.  Éowyn bit her lip, watching the dust and looked down at her gown.  I can be out of this, in men’s clothes and on a horse in ten minutes.  I will start, I think, with a great hunt and then I later will meet the Marshals, like he would have to hear how things are going.  I think I will enjoy being Lady of Rohan, Queen while my brother is gone—there is no one here any longer who would dare tell me what to do.

***

            Faramir stood in the marketplace and looked around, at a loss.  What would she like?  In front of him, arms linked and cuddling in a way he was swiftly finding nauseating, were Aragorn and Arwen.  Pippin darted by, clutching a large cookie while Merry trailed him.  “What do you think she would like?” He asked the hobbit.

            “Nothing here.”  Merry gazed dismally at a bolt of silk. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

            Aragorn spoke up, looking at Pippin, “Something sharp, I’d guess.  Peregrin, where’d you get that cookie?”

            “Who are you buying things for?” Arwen fingered a piece of lace, gazing at him curiously.

            Pippin took a large bite, mumbling, “O’r thr...” He chewed and swallowed, “Why?”

“The Lady Éowyn.”  The most beautiful, brave woman alive and one I couldn’t shop for if I tried.

            “She didn’t mention you.”  The Queen must have seen his face for she quickly added, “We didn’t speak much, really, we were...busy, I’d guess you’d say.”

            “Get me one.” The King dug in his pocket and tossed the hobbit a coin and then turned to his wife.  Pippin vanished cheerfully. “No?”  Aragorn asked. “Weren’t you there a day?” He frowned, “I thought you did something with her.”

             “Yes, I did...” Arwen repeated, “But we didn’t speak much, like I said.  She was occupied…I helped her as best I could.”

            “What did you do?” Faramir was instantly jealous. Pippin wandered back, three soft cookies in his hands. He gave one to Aragorn, who sniffed and eyed it suspiciously.

            “You didn’t do anything to it, did you? Where’s the rest of my money?”

            “No.” Pippin stuck one of the cookies in his mouth, grinning cheekily. “Here.”  Aragorn scowled but ate his anyhow. 

            She looked hesitant as Faramir waited. “We had to, well, she had to—it was not pleasant…”

            “Hey, here’s something!” Merry trotted away into the crowd. A moment later his high voice cut through the noise. “Faramir, come look at this! Faramir…Faramir, now!”

            “Coming!”  He still wanted to hear what Arwen had done with Éowyn, but he obediently followed the hobbit’s call. Aragorn, Arwen and Pippin trailed him. Faramir listened as he dodged patrons, trying to find Merry.  Impatient, he reached out with his mind and instantly located him.

 Behind him was Pippin’s voice, “Here.”

            “What?” Arwen sounded puzzled. “Oh, no thank you, Peregrin.”

            The hobbit frowned; Faramir could hear it and feel it. “You’re too thin.”

            “Hobbit lasses are rather plump and they tend to think all women should be.” Aragorn explained, apparently taking the cookie for himself, if one judged by Pippin’s cry of outrage.

            “Hey! That was mine!” 

            Merry waved at him and Faramir stepped to his side, ignoring his followers again.  “See?  She would like something like these better than anything else we’ve seen.”

            “It’s ivory…” Surprised, he looked down at the display—it was indeed ivory and the creamy material was made into little carvings and adornments.  Some were teeny mûmakil, excellently done; but there were other animals and all types of jewelry—brooches, necklaces, rings, earrings—as well as various other stones. There was an onyx and ruby hair clip that he immediately liked—gleaming pitch black and sparkling crimson set in gold in the shape of a butterfly.  He just knew it would look nice in her hair.  But would Éowyn wear it?  That was the problem and Faramir was frustrated. He didn’t want to get her something she would feel obligated to wear; he wanted something she would enjoy. Which would be… “You’re sure, Merry?”

            “This is the best so far.”  The hobbit had a point and he surveyed the items.  Aragorn wandered close by, smirking, 

            “I don’t see anything that could be deadly, I’m not sure she would like anything here.”

            Faramir frowned and ignored him with an effort. “What would you pick, Merry?”

            Merry, virtually at eye level with the objects, frowned, and then poked with his finger. “That, that and that.”

            Surprised, he asked, “All of them?”

            “Yes.” The hobbit gave him a reproachful look as Faramir eyed his selections.  In them was the hair clip, pleasing him and two other things—an intricately carved ivory handled dagger with tiny horses, mûmakil and warriors and a wide, pale, almost translucent jade bracelet. 

            “I don’t know...”

            The King asked, smirking insolently, “What, the knife?  That’s sharp—she can cut things with that or even stab them, or I know! She can…”

            “Aragorn, where’s Arwen?”  He took pleasure in the look of panic as the man spun in a circle.  Faramir knew exactly where she was, thanks to his gift—her bright elven mind put her two stalls to the side and one to the right, looking at shawls and scarves.  Aragorn hurried off to find his wife, leaving him alone with Merry.  Pippin was nowhere in sight. 

            “The bracelet is pretty.” Merry argued, standing on his furry toes to see everything.

            “Yes, but will she wear it?”  That is the entire and only problem.

            He picked it up, holding it up to the sun.  The rays almost shone right through the nebulous stone. “I think so.”

            Faramir sighed. I like it, but still… “That’s not good enough.”

            “What about the dagger?”  The hobbit put down the bracelet and pointed to the knife just out of his reach.

            “That, I think we are fairly safe in getting.” Though I shall not admit Aragorn was right. He gestured to the man running the stall. He’d been silent throughout so as not to bother his Lord; common folk he might haggle, but he respectfully waited upon the Steward. “The ivory dagger—that one.”

            “Wrapped, my Lord?”

He glanced up. “Yes.”

“What about the hair pin?” This was hopeful, obviously Merry, too, liked it.

            “Will she wear it?  Have you ever seen her wear one?”

            “Well…”

            “That’s a no.”  Faramir resisted the temptation to groan.  This is so difficult. Aragorn appeared nearby, his arms heavily laden with packages and Faramir’s frustration melted away to amusement.  The King glared, obediently following Arwen as she moved through the crowd.

 “This will be you,” He hissed under his breath. Pippin was still nowhere to be seen.

            Faramir chuckled, “She doesn’t shop much, I’d guess.” Aragorn’s face fell and he laughed.

Merry frowned, “She didn’t have any, remember?  Oh, well, we can look…”

            “No, no…” Faramir pointed to the bracelet and the hair clasp, “That and that, too.”  Whether she liked them or not, these were the best he could offer and he was weary of looking.  Still, I wonder if there are any lion pelts…he’d said he would get her one to show her. “Come Merry, let’s look for one more thing.”

***

July 10th

Byrga reared high and Éowyn clung with her knees, throwing her spear as hard as she could.  Dogs and men were all around; the world had reduced to the din of their voices and the gigantic, twisting black bear with it’s gaping pink maw.  She whooped as the bear slapped at the shaft of her spear penetrating from its side; the wood splintered and the creature’s small, red eyes burned in fury.  Hounds snarled, rushing to snap with foaming jaws and then leaping back.  The bear rose up on its hind legs, roaring wide and an arrow from Éowyn’s left went into its mouth.  Blood colored its yellow teeth and it champed its jaw at the protruding shaft.  Unfortunately, the arrow hadn’t gone in far enough to kill the beast.  Others followed, raining down, but still the bear stood.

             She yelled in joy, adrenaline rushing through her veins as she pulled back her own bow.  Byrga’s ears were flat on his head as he wheeled under her; other horses bumped them, and he bared his teeth to give her room.  The bear fell back, her arrow in its side along with many.  None of the wounds were immediately fatal; the creature was moving too much to hit it accurately enough to fell it. 

            Suddenly it roared again, hurting her ears and charged.  Wide paws swept hounds out of the way as the bear tried to escape.  Éowyn grabbed up one of the spears set in the ground and took Byrga almost alongside the animal—it turned and she looked straight into its enraged eye as she rammed the iron-tipped spear into its swinging gut.  The men were promptly with her, drawing their swords as they crowded in and the bear fought ferociously, biting at the air and slapping its giant, clawed paws, but the horses leapt back, balancing low on their haunches to better to twist and wheel. 

            I shall have his skin for a rug, Éowyn thought and aimed carefully.  The bow was almost too strong for her and her shoulder ached, but she held the string.  Wait, wait…Byrga’s hooves planted themselves at her command “Whoa!” and as the bear rose again she released.  The point flew straight and disappeared into the beast’s eye.  It’s head rolled and it swayed and then crumpled.  Éowyn cried her triumph then laughed, sweating and scratched all over from the chase, but she’d helped her people—the great bear had been threatening sheep in the Westemnet for weeks.  And to think, if my brother were here I’d be sitting at home.  Tell me not to leave Edoras, ha, I am miles away. 

            She slid from Byrga’s side while the men carefully made sure the bear was fully dead. Others called the hounds away.  Once it was determined safe, Éowyn put her hand under the creature’s foaming, bloody chin and peered at its teeth and claws.  He’s old, these are rotted and worn away…the slow, soft-skinned sheep were easier for him than deer or digging for grubs.  Wiping her palms, she turned to one of the grinning, panting men.  “Skin it and keep the head with it…I would have it for a rug in my rooms.”

            “Aye, my Lady.”  Now this is living, she thought, content.  I almost wish Éomer wouldn’t return.

            “Is there an inn nearby?”

            “Aye.” He was drawing his knife.

            “Good, we will stay there the night and I can meet with the Marshal in the morning.”  Éowyn dismounted to hug Byrga’s sweaty neck in appreciation.  I love this and still three weeks until I must be in Edoras to make ready for Uncle’s funeral. She sobered, three weeks to do as much as I can.  This total freedom will not come again and I must make the most of it.

***

July 18th

            He left Gimli and wandered about, gazing at the women, and soon spotting the Royal Table.  “Hello.” Aragorn nodded as Éomer seated himself. Arwen smiled and he was blinded anew by her beauty—luckily it did not last as long and soon he could look away, though he gave her a courteous nod.  Where is Faramir, he wondered. I’d have expected him to be questioning me by now.  He was weary from the long ride and anxious to get back to Edoras.  Gods alone know what Éowyn is doing at this moment.  Around the room couples danced.  It was apparently some sort of fanciful night in the city.  Éomer watched, his gaze moving randomly from one lovely woman to the next until it halted on a familiar figure—there he is…what is he doing? 

            Faramir was dancing, too, expertly twirling a young woman around the wide floor.  Éomer might have been infuriated for his sister’s sake, but for the utterly bored set of the Steward’s face.  His movements were mechanical and although he never missed a step, he was clearly not enjoying himself.  The woman was another matter—her hand rested upon the Prince’s chest and she laughed lightly, jewels shimmering and her gown swirling as she matched his movements a little too closely.  Faramir just gave her an awkward look, smiling politely.  When the song finished, he smoothly disengaged himself, bowing low and Éomer watched him get all of three feet before another young lady captured him again.  Poor bastard, he thought, why doesn’t he just refuse?  Eating his meal, completely undisturbed at the Royal Table, he continued to watch Faramir get caught over and over by the women of Gondor. It was as though they were working as a team, keeping him on the floor by the sheer power of their feminine charms and what he apparently considered unbreakable social etiquette.  Finally, incredulous, Éomer looked sideways at Aragorn.

            “They will run him into the ground. Why doesn’t he turn them down?”

            “It’s impolite.” The King replied, then grimaced as Arwen smirked and grabbed up his arm. The look on his face was clear—he’d obviously walked straight into it.

“Dance with me, Estel?”

Éomer snorted laughter, almost choking on his wine at both the name and the reply. “Yes, darling, if you wish.” I’d forgotten about that name. And darling? Ha! Aragorn glared a warning of violence as he took her hand and followed his wife away. Éomer turned back to the dancers. He’d pretended to understand, but his first thought was, rude? So what?  He shook his head, disgusted at Faramir.  The man has no spirit, no fire—he is a tame pony.  My sister will tramp all over him.

            It was nearly an hour later when the Steward walked slowly to the table and slumped into a chair.  He was sweating lightly and immediately grabbed a glass of pale wine, drinking deep.  Éomer waited patiently to say the words he’d prepared.  “Enjoying yourself?”

            The reply was terse, “I could not refuse them—it would be discourteous.” Faramir glanced at him, his grey eyes cooling further as he added, “Besides, I do not have an irrefutable excuse…” He raised the glass to his lips, “Such as my wife by my side.” Faramir drank again as Éomer smiled inwardly—that he could respect.  Now he acts like a man; perhaps there is a tiny bit of fire in him yet. 

            Leaning back in his chair and watching the colorful swirl of ladies’ skirts, he spoke, “Let us hope you still have a wife and I a sister waiting.”

            “Why?” The Steward’s voice was sharp, concerned.

            “She is alone and undoubtedly doing everything I have ever told her not to.” He sighed and swirled his sweet wine, wishing it were ale.  “I’d hoped to report to my sister that you were pining away…” He shook his head regretfully, amusing himself, “But I suppose I cannot after seeing that demonstration.”

Then, Faramir did something then that surprised him; the Steward hesitated and then in perfectly passable Rohirric, answered curtly.  “Ælc dæg synt a awa. Ge hæfst ná gripe of min iermðu.”

After a second, Éomer recovered himself enough to arch an eyebrow and ask, “Iermðu, Hordere?  Ge onsend her ná ærendgewrit...”

“Ond…?” Faramir gave him the same expression back; the Prince arched an eyebrow in cool, disdainful skepticism, setting his glass down.  He was still speaking in remarkably competent Rohirric, though very carefully, “Hwa deþ seo hæfþ don mid lufu?” With a sigh he slowly added, “Shé is min sefa, dest ge ná forstandan?”

I’m actually impressed at this… after only two months he talks back to me in my own language…Oh, enough of this foolishness, if he would act this way all the time and keep his hands away from Éowyn I would be quite fond of him!  Éomer was about to reply good-naturedly when two women halted in front of them and he quickly shut his mouth, not wanting to attract any attention—these were no girls, they were women fully confident in their beauty and desirableness.  As females, they knew refusal of their will was all but unheard of and they moved without hesitation.  He glanced sideways at the equally frozen Faramir and tried not to laugh.  I will teach him rudeness and all its delightful uses; they would take him away and he would permit it—Éowyn will be running his princedom at this rate, while he smiles and nods as she goes about hunting and endangering herself. Éomer swallowed his distaste and permitted a slow smile to form on his lips, meeting the nearest woman’s eyes.  She was a painted and perfumed brunette; he thought she would be prettier in the plain dress of a maid than the embroidered thing she wore.  The other woman fixed her eyes upon Faramir, who shifted uncomfortably.  Éomer leaned back in his chair, relaxing as his coquettishly flitted her eyelashes and moved her shoulders under her shawl, purring,

“You’re the Lord of Rohan, aren’t you?”

Permitting his eyes to lazily lower to the shape of her bosom, he toyed with his wine glass, looking back up just as slowly. “Aye.”

“With all those great, handsome horses?”  He swore he heard a noise come from Faramir, an amused chuckle, though naught but a breath before it was smothered. 

“Aye.” He waited, patient and keeping the smile firmly in place.  I will enjoy this.

Less than a minute later the retreating women nearly slammed into the returning Aragorn and Arwen.  Faramir was silent, staring at him in open astonishment.  The King frowned, “What did you do to them?”

Éomer smiled. “I only said I didn’t dance.” The Steward shook his head,

“He said he didn’t dance with harlots.”

“I never said harlot.”

Faramir glanced at him, “You certainly implied it.”

“Did you want to dance?” He had Faramir there; the man silenced.

Aragorn still looked appalled, “Those weren’t harlots!  They were noblewomen of the city! I—you can’t do that!”

Arwen actually laughed out loud, causing the three men to look at her in confusion. “Éomer, you are a brute.”  She sat by him, shaking her fair head. “Really, an beast.” 

What do you know, I think she found that amusing… He leaned toward the Queen, grinning while whispering confidentially,  “I’m a boor as well.”

She laughed again and Aragorn’s eyes narrowed.  Éomer smirked at the man’s scowl while Arwen smiled and patted his arm.  Doesn’t like that does he? Huh. 

***

July 22

Faramir rode quietly, listening to the soft sound of the hooves as the horses moved.  The Rohirrim were cheerful, calling back and forth, speaking in their tongue; only Éomer was silent, his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon.  He understood better now, thanks to Deolir, that the soldiers considered Théoden to have died a great death—one all men of Rohan hoped for and they did not so much lament him as envy him and feel happy for him.  No doubt Éomer mourns him as an Uncle and feels the loss more keenly.  Faramir glanced sympathetically at the man’s broad back; he’d felt his deep sorrow when Éomer had walked alongside Théoden’s bower, guiding it through the city. 

Beneath him his horse walked quietly, keeping the pace of the funeral march.  All around were the greatest peoples in Arda and he listened to various soft murmurs, most drowned out by the cheerful Rohirrim. The mood of the great company was sorrow tempered with gladness at returning home for some and—what is that?  Faramir came out of his trance, glancing up.  He was surrounded; six Rohirrim rode silent around him and he frowned in puzzlement.  What are they doing?  Deolir had vehemently denied everything Halorl had told him about the men of Éomer’s éored testing him, but... Who do I believe? Halorl considered himself my friend; I seriously doubt Deolir even liked me…is this some sort of test? And if so, what is the correct response?  None of the six so much as looked at him.  Faramir tapped his fingers against his leg restlessly.  I shall wait and see what they do, he decided.  That hurts no one.

The six men shadowed him the entire day, even unmounted, they were never far; Faramir ignored them the best he could. The only time the six truly vanished was when Éomer came around—it was if they didn’t want him to know what they were doing.  I think I recognize one of them…I’m not sure though.  Faramir eyed the six Rohirrim; they were nearby while he unsaddled his horse.  None made eye contact. This is strange.

                The next day, almost as soon as he’d mounted there they were again, flanking him perfectly.  Faramir tolerated it until noon.  Damn it all, he thought; then abruptly turned his head to his left and asked, “What are you doing?”  The Rohirrim man glanced over.

            “My Lord?” It was politely confused; from behind him Faramir sensed amusement ballooning.

            “Why are you following me?”  There was definite mirth coming from them now—low, muffled snickers from behind and the man to his right turned his head in an attempt to hide his smile.

            “Following?” It was equally as innocent and mystified.  A burst of laughter from his back left; a hiss to be quiet from his right. 

            Faramir was getting exasperated. “Yes. Explain.”

            “We are not following…” I’m sure I know him…from where?  The tavern…that night with Halorl…who is he?  Dammit, I can’t remember any of their names! “My Lord, we are guarding.”

            More muffled laughter now and Faramir had the unpleasant feeling they were ridiculing him behind his back. “Guarding?”

            “Aye…we wouldn’t want our Lady’s spoils of war to come to her damaged, would we?  It would upset her.”  He sensed the incredible effort the man was making at remaining straight-faced.

            Spoil of war? What do I say to that? They are making fun of me, aren’t they…what do I do? Too bad Halorl never covered that part.  Before he had a chance to speak, the man riding on his right added, “Aye, she wouldn’t want her trophy ruined.”  This broke them and the Rohirrim howled with laughter as he rode silent and furious. 

            Faramir gritted his teeth at their mirth. “Her spoil of war? Trophy…”

            Through their hilarity, one managed to gasp, “My Lord, it is a…a compliment to by our Lady’s pet…”

            Pet? Pet? They call me a pet as though I were a little yapping dog to sit in her lap? “Her pet?” He growled it, irate, twisting in the saddle. “Tell me—”

***

He heard the rising voices and turned to see who disturbed the deferential quiet; cursing, he steered the stallion back, trotting swiftly through the line. Have they no patience or respect?

“Enough!” Éomer materialized, kneeing his tall stud into their midst and the soldiers scattered smoothly.  He glanced at the enraged Faramir. His grey eyes had darkened to almost black. “My apologies, they are…overeager.”

Overeager? He could see it in the Steward’s face as he swallowed his anger, composing himself. 

“It is fine.”  Éomer rode near him the rest of the journey and made sure Faramir was unbothered, though he often saw the same men grinning at over at the Steward in amusement.  They will have to wait to have him.  He allowed himself a small smile.  Although…spoil of war…she did acquire him through battle, if you look at it that way…  Éomer chuckled, then saddened.  Théodred would have loved that jest, though he would never have admitted it.  He gazed at the bower; Merry rode silent, keeping Théoden’s arms and his uncle’s face was peaceful in death.  I hope you are reunited, Uncle, cousin…and have watched over my sister while I was away.  Gods grant that I earn such honors before I die as you have.

***

            The gold glinted in his eyes for miles. Recognizing their destination, Faramir wanted to plant his heels in his mount’s flanks and fly.  But he held his place and feigned patience, not even reaching out with his mind.  Still, as the horses walked, walk! I wish to gallop! he couldn’t help but fidget.  Nearby, he felt the same nervous anxiety twitter in Éomer’s mind.  At least we have this in common.  After what seemed to him an eternity, the party leisurely entered the wide courtyard, halting near a large stable.  Faramir slid from his saddle, gazing up at the golden hall—the doors were open, but he could see no one.  Rohirric stable boys were everywhere, leading the noble folk’s horses away and a crowd gazed respectfully at Théoden and wide-eyed at the elves.  Faramir’s nerves were jumping with impatience; the mass of people, their emotions pressing against his pitiful shields, did not help to steady him.  Where is she? Where?  

            “Faramir.” It was a delighted voice; Éomer turned.  Halorl grinned at him. “Wilcume to Edoras.”

            Pleased at seeing his friend, Faramir was about to reply when a flash of gold caught his eye.  Standing at the top of the stairs to Meduseld, she appeared.  Oh, Valar…Arien, Vána…she looks like a queen… The urge to fall to his knees was great. Arien, the sun… Vána, the earth…my world, my heart…

 Éowyn’s head was high, a slender circlet of gold resting upon her brow.  Her gown clung to her; and even from her height he could see that she was no longer as terribly lean as she’d been—her healthy curves and the golden tan of her skin held him briefly.  Gazing back at her face, he saw there rested a slight frown and her blue eyes searched.  Éowyn!  His mind outraced his voice, which would have been hardly heard over the crowd and she turned to look down.

A quick smile curved her lips and Faramir was overjoyed.  I am hundreds of miles from my city…and yet, now… I am home.  Éowyn began to walk down the stairs and he stood, watching; the anticipation was sweet and his heart raced.  My love. I am home.

Translations:

Wilcume, Deolir. Ic þancie þe for eower lar.—Welcome, Deolir.  I thank you for your teaching.

In Rohirric, Hordere.  Ge neot se geþiode.—In Rohirric, Steward.  You must use the language.

Na, hé dyde ná, Deolir. Efne geþiode—No, he didn’t, Deolir. Only language.

Ic hæbbe a lecgan—I have a room.

Ælc dæg synt a awa. Ge hæfst ná gripe of min iermðu.—Every day has been an eternity.  You have no grasp of my misery.

Iermðu, Hordere?  Ge onsend her ná ærendgewrit...—Misery, Steward?  You have sent her no letter…

Ond…? Hwa deþ seo hæfþ don mid lufu? Shé is min sefa, dest ge ná forstandan?—And…? What does that have to do with love?  She is my heart, do you not understand?

(is it just me or are these chapters getting loooonger?  My hands hurt. )