Éowyn walked slowly down the hall, her arm still reluctantly linked with Aragorn’s and, although his presence was nowhere near as gladly received as Faramir’s, she did feel better.  Flexing her hand, she flinched—it hurt and was somewhat swollen.  The ring gleamed, the pale blue stones’ facets catching the slightest bit of light only to turn it to fire; she played with it, moving it back and forth just a little bit with her thumb.  It felt strange still, the weight of it on her finger, her hand. Aragorn spoke suddenly, “What ailed Faramir earlier?  He looked pale and sick—I thought he would faint twice.”

            She lied swift, instinctively; the way she did so without even thinking surprised her.  “I don’t know.  I noticed nothing.”

            “No?”  He turned his head a little; his voice was mild, making her suspicious.

            Éowyn answered firmly.  “No.”

            He stopped them, looking confused.  “You lie.”

            How far can he see into me?  Éowyn wondered nervously and with a growing anger.  Her mind was Faramir’s alone to see into, to touch and know.  “Why don’t you ask him?”

            Aragorn was still gazing at her.  “I might.”

            He stared down, intent.  Éowyn began to get very angry.  How dare you…inside she felt something rise, some force; I could because he could…she thought, though she did not know what she meant.  Aragorn stared and after a few seconds she said, greatly perturbed, “Come, we are already late—they cannot begin without us.”  As the sole Lady of the Golden Hall she would bring Éomer the cup when it was time.  At her words Aragorn resumed walking and she relaxed.  I do not think he is the same as Faramir…or perhaps just not as strong?  She remembered Aragorn’s voice when she’d been stuck in the dark dream.  He’d called and called, but until she’d answered he’d been unable to find her within the cold blackness. 

I did not know we came this far.  Éowyn was surprised that they were still walking.  Aragorn spoke again, breaking the silence with a sighed; “I didn’t do anything.”

            “What?”

            He smiled some.  “I’m distracting you with my problem.”

            “Oh.”  I do not think it shall work.  If he heard her he gave no sign. “Go on.”

            “I confess…I was, maybe, a little persistent,” Despite herself, Éowyn smiled.  “…But, really she stopped talking to me before that…Isengard was just a question to get her to speak—to get her to begin talking so that she might tell me what was wrong.”

            “Did she?”

            “No.”  Aragorn sounded doleful.

            They were nearer to the dining hall now, “I’m sorry.”

            “And, she’s moved into Galadriel’s rooms—” She could hear the confusion in his voice, “It was never like this before.”

            “Like what?”  Éowyn listened closely, finding herself feeling better with something tangible to focus on, a problem she could help find resolution to.  I hope.

            “Before…she talked to me, she told me how she felt…now I don’t know what’s wrong and she—elves can be very, very reserved…Arwen was always forthright with me before.”  Aragorn sighed deeply, “I don’t know…she’s giving up a great deal and just for me…but I thought she already gave it up.  I don’t understand.” 

            Maybe she is torn in two; maybe she has regrets…maybe she thinks it’s still not too late for her, that there is the possibility of change…  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

            “You could, perhaps…” When she glanced his way, he quickly elaborated, “Whenever you felt like it…not today, no, but…try?”
            Éowyn nodded, puzzled, “I already said I would.”  He is very distraught, then, to ask twice.  Aragorn smiled gratefully at her and then they were there.

            They entered the main hall; it was filled with crowded tables.  Servants bustled to and fro carrying wine for the nobles and the Knights.  Éomer’s eyes were immediately on them; so were Faramir’s and Arwen’s.  The Queen gazed at them as they entered together with their arms linked and although it was all very proper, her cool expression made Éowyn wonder yet again if she knew anything of her former infatuation.  Uncomfortable, she slipped her arm out of Aragorn’s, keeping her hand down by her side and the ring out of sight.  He nodded, moving away to sit at Arwen’s side; the Queen’s head was already bent, she was no longer looking at them.

            “Sister.”  It was hesitant.  Éomer gave her a very small smile, obviously forced; for the first time Faramir had been seated beside her and Éowyn felt his grey eyes though his mind did not touch hers.  I am between them…how fitting.  He was being careful, restrained not only because of the elves, but also because of her. He fears that I am greatly upset…she licked her lips anxiously, feeling trapped between Éomer and Faramir’s gazes, chairs, hearts. 

            But before she could sit there was ceremony to do.  A minstrel and loremaster came, bowing low before her and Éomer as he stood, and gave to her the gold cup of Kings.  It was filled and the water from the Snowbourn sparkled.  Water from the river, from our land, she thought.  It holds our spirit. 

***

            He watched her, feeling far better in the Hall.  Here were lesser people and their emotions did not run near as high.  Still, his temples throbbed from the aftereffect and he wished for his room, to sit in the quiet.  Éowyn held the golden cup in her hands and Faramir winced guiltily, seeing how hard he’d squeezed the one.  Éomer’s eyes fixed upon her ring and her hand and then shifted to him; it glinted blue and white against the gold, standing out.  Faramir ignored the questioning gaze, instead admiring Éowyn.  Her gown shone brilliantly white, glowing in the hall, and her flaxen hair fell upon her shoulders in waves as she bowed her head.  Her lips were slightly pursed, her brow creased; he felt her concentration.  The minstrel began to recite the names of all the Lords of Rohan, beginning with the mounds on the west-side.  “Eorl the Young; and Brego, builder of the Hall; and Aldor; and Fréa; and Fréawine; Goldwine; Déor and Gram; and Helm.”  Faramir listened in respectful silence, as did all the folk.  He recognized most of the names from his history lessons over the summer.  “And then the line was broken.”  The minstrel paused deferentially before going onto the east-side, “Fréalaf, Helm’s sister-son and Léofa and Walda and Folca and Folcwine and Fengel and Thengel and…” He paused again, “Théoden.” 

            When Théoden’s name was spoken Éomer took the cup from his sister’s hands.  He did not drink immediately, but smiled at her—it was a gentle smile, full of love and sorrow.  His lips moved, mouthing the words: “In lecgan mid Théodred, Ic astand.”  Éowyn smiled back, her hand going to her face as though to hide sudden grief and her brother inclined his head to her.  In one draught he drained the cup and she turned, crying in a strong voice that belied the deep sadness in her eyes.  “Fill the cups!  We drink now to our new Lord!”

            Faramir gazed at her, silent.  What am I doing? It crossed his aching, weary mind almost absently, but the thought scared him.  What am I doing here?  Sister and brother looked at each other again and he leaned low to whisper into her ear as servants moved quickly.  Whatever he said made Éowyn close her eyes and Éomer moved closer, hugging his sister tight with one arm.  His gaze lifted to Faramir’s—it was fiercely protective, almost angrily defiant.  She murmured something and pulled back, wiping her face, composed again.

            Faramir studied at her sadly, wishing he could help, but this was not his place.  It was between them, the grief—that much was clear.  They mourn…I do not.  Looking at his goblet of wine, he thought, few lamented my father…he was passed over as the last of the old age; his name shall be forever reminiscent of fire, death and betrayal to the new, beloved King…can I say I grieved for the last of my blood?  He could not tell whether or no.  As the servants finished, Éowyn bade them all rise, “Arise, Riders of Rohan and the more than worthy friends of our people, our esteemed guests on this day.”  The crowd stood, lifting their cups. She turned to face her brother and her blue eyes were clear as she smiled,  “Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!”

            The Knights’ voices rang louder than any, echoing joyfully and as he, too, shouted in chorus, Faramir watched Éowyn bend her head, tears back on her cheeks.  “Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!”  The folk drank.  He swallowed, tasting the rich wine and feeling his head ache from all the commotion.

            My love, I would make it better…but I don’t know how.

***

Sitting at last, she did not look at either, instead nervously reaching for the dolphin pendant, only to realize it was still at her wrist.  She fiddled with it while the feast began—the food was hot, still steaming as it was served; Éowyn was not hungry yet.  Merry, she noticed, was nearby too, seated at her brother’s side.  The hobbit gazed at her sadly, poking at his meat, but not eating either.  Few were and those mainly picked at their filled plates.  Beside her, she felt Faramir’s eyes upon her again; their weight was peculiarly easy to sense and familiar.  The hand the ring rode upon was on her leg, hidden.  His hand fell from the table to touch hers, hesitant, but when she did not move he stroked her fingers; the calluses on his hands felt good.  When he squeezed she winced because it hurt and he smoothed it gently, apologetically.  Faramir’s hand was warm when he rested it on hers, apparently intent upon leaving it there. 

Feeling a cross between gladness at the comfort of his touch and growing aggravation that he clearly thought she needed comfort, Éowyn picked up her cool, sharp wine and drank deeply, draining it.  Her head swam for a few moments; she’d all but drunk her dinner the night before and had no food since.  Éomer looked at her in concern and she looked back, defiant as a servant refilled her goblet.  Éowyn shook Faramir’s hand off of hers, ignoring his brief, hurt glance and reached for her bread, using both her hands to tear the thick crust.  Steam rose, the center was soft and chewy; it smelled delicious.  She was hungry now; he can hold my hand and console me later, must everything I do upset him?  Is he that sensitive?  In case he was listening, she thought, What a woman you are, Faramir. 

Éomer’s eyes focused on the gleaming ring again, as did others’.  She clenched her jaw, ripping the bread into small hunks and soaking it in her soup before she ate it.  It was good, hot and meaty; suddenly starving, she ate uncaring that she was one of the only ones doing so.  It is a feast, I shall feast.  At her sides, she was aware of Éomer looking from her ring to Faramir, who looked back, utterly tranquil on the outside at least.  I can still feel how ragged he is inside, though, like shredded cloth…it hurt him much, but he tolerated it to stand beside me.  Éowyn glanced lovingly at Faramir, feeling her irritation fade.  He’s so good.  Her brother frowned but his voice was easy,  “Where did you get that pretty thing, Faramir?”

For just a moment she felt his amusement; it was unintentional, she thought; his nearness made his feelings extend over onto her.  The link, it gets stronger every time he reinforces it…I can still feel him, no matter how he’s holding himself in.  Éowyn listened as Faramir thought; I found it walking in the garden…  “In the marketplace in Gondor.”

“Hmmph.”  Éomer made a noise of comprehension and the conversation died yet again until Merry made a valiant but ultimately unfortunate effort to save it.

“He was lucky I was with him—he didn’t know what to get.”

Éowyn found herself smiling at him, cheering slightly. “Is that so?” I will miss lighthearted hobbits…I must visit their land one day.  She looked at her scantily laden plate, her still half-full bowl of soup.  And I shall let them fatten me to their content. Faramir glanced sideways at her, the corners of his mouth turning up just a bit as he answered.

“Indeed, I would have been hopelessly lost but for, of course, Master Merry’s direction.”  She would have laughed until she caught the sudden attentiveness in her brother’s eyes.  He looked calm, but when he spoke it was cool, distrustful.  Éowyn tensed—it was a tone he most often used when he decided whether to push an issue. 

“Is that right?”
            Faramir became wary, but he replied in his usual polite manner, “I suppose so.”

Éomer looked at her, asking, “Do you like it?”  It was dreadfully rude.  Éowyn did not like her brother’s tone this time either, regardless of the words.  What is he doing?  What does he mean do I like it?  It’s pretty…  He means something else then …I don’t know.  Suddenly the thought of drinking herself into a stupor and passing out upon the table, like an overused harlot in a tavern, was terribly appealing—if I am unconscious I cannot see or hear what they do.  Besides, the embarrassment I can deal with, this…them…I cannot.  Aragorn frowned across the table; Arwen looked back and forth between Éomer and Faramir, as though seeing them for the first time.

“Of course I do…” She gave him a stern glance.  Stop it, Éomer.  “I’m wearing it.”

              “Then we were lucky Master Merry was there.”  The conversation would died once more but Faramir spoke again, as though he could not quite keep himself silent.  His voice was borderline ridiculing, the caustic tone ghosting below his usual courtesy.

            “Aye, I’m not sure what I shall do the next time.”  Why is he continuing?  Disgusted and perplexed, Éowyn stared at Faramir. 

            Éomer’s knife made a sharp sound on his plate.  “Perhaps you should know by now what would please her.”

            There was anger in Faramir’s eyes, and victory as he struck, creating a crossroad in their verbal war—surrender or violent escalation—yet she got the distinct impression his words were unwillful, he did not wish to say them and yet the urge to enrage her brother was too strong.  “Perhaps I do already.”

            Éowyn became as tense as Éomer did; his jaw clenched and he went stiff with fury.  Aragorn spoke swiftly to stop whatever he might have said; there was clear anger in him at their behavior.  Arwen gazed at her husband, scrutinizing as he coldly snapped, “I think we should speak of something else now.”  All up and down the table folk were paying attention, eyeing the King of Rohan and the Steward. 

            “You’re right.”  Her brother’s glower did not leave Faramir, but he relaxed.  Merry was wide-eyed, worried looking.  For the second time Éowyn drained her wine in a series of quick gulps.  I simply cannot pass out quickly enough for this day to end. 

She smiled, feeling strained, feeling her displeasure and anger…what would please me would be for the both of you to act reasonably!… her voice was contemptuous.  “The wine is good.”  Éowyn signaled for more, gazing at both her brother and Faramir.  See?  This is what you fools drive me to.  Look close, my dears, I will show you truly disgraceful behavior soon enough.

To her surprise Faramir answered, sounding contrite.  Éowyn…please…

I know you’re sorry…well, she gathered all her mental strength and hurled it at him in a burst of fury, curse you, keep your apologies!  I hate them!  He flinched and she closed her eyes, feeling cold and heartless though she’d triumphed.  I do not wish to argue; I do not want them to fight…why?  Why must they do so?  Do they enjoy acting like children?   

He answered again.  No.  I…I don’t know why.  I tried to stop myself—he just…I don’t know why I couldn’t be silent.  It was—I should not have said that, I know, I’m…

His inner voice was so pleading and bewildered that she felt terrible.  Éowyn took his hand under the table, stroking it because to squeeze would hurt her.  It’s all right.  He laced his fingers with hers, his thumb gently rubbing.  Éomer stared at his plate, silent.

Merry did not appear willing to try again, so Éowyn took a deep breath.  Théoden would not have tolerated this and neither will I—this is not my brother’s hall alone yet, if they refuse to act decently I will have them both tossed into cells.  The thought made her grim and disheartened and Faramir glanced her way, surprised.  “Aragorn?”

He eyed her,  “Yes?”  Éowyn raised her eyebrows.  Help me, you idiot.  “Oh…ah…” 

“Why don’t you describe for us the wonderfully astounding place of Isengard, dear?”  Arwen’s tone was chill and Aragorn grimaced.  “I hear so much about it.”  After a moment in which the King searched for any response, Éowyn simply laughed, feeling a sudden, strange comradeship along with the buoyant warmth of all the wine she’d drunk on an almost empty stomach.  She, too, is about to be driven mad, I think.  Picking up her goblet, she drank it as well, though slower than the first two.  If I do not wish to be drunk, I’d better eat.  She plucked up a bit of goose, savoring the tender meat.

I think that is a good idea.  Faramir looked at her in concern and luckily not reproach, at which she would have exploded, audience or no. 

Aragorn was still silent, so she prodded him.  “Go on…in case I never go there either.”  He gave her an annoyed glance and Éowyn laughed again. They were looking at her now, Faramir and Éomer.  Éowyn lifted her fourth goblet and smiled widely to the both of them as Aragorn began.  

“Well, Isengard is…” 

***

Éowyn laughed rather loudly and Faramir gazed at her, wondering if she were drunk.  His eyes met Éomer’s and they both looked away.  He, too, feels ashamed.  Many of the folk had moved now, seating themselves in various places according to their conversational preferences.  Pippin had joined their small group at the head of the table and now he spoke up in a surly voice, “You didn’t do anything!  Isengard was a victory for us hobbits!”

“What?”  Aragorn paused in his account, looking irritated.  They’d all begun to eat now, as well as drink; the feast is actually going much better, Faramir thought. 

“We won it!  You should give it to us!”  Éowyn burst out laughing.  Apparently encouraged by this, Pippin continued, “Greedy!  We brought the Ents there!  It is our spoil of war!”

Faramir blinked, remembering with a sudden amusement that he’d not felt the first time—I, too, am a spoil of war.  He looked at Éowyn as she smiled at Pippin.  Yours, my darling and well won.  “I am not…” Aragorn stared at the hobbit, interrupting himself to ask in exasperation,  “Whatever would you do with Isengard, Pippin?”

“That’s not the point!”

Éomer chuckled, “You could fit a lot of hobbits in there.  They could live in it.” 

Éowyn covered her mouth, giggling breathlessly.  Faramir frowned; noticing was Éomer frowning too now. 

Merry waved one hand, “Be quiet, Pip, we don’t want Isengard.”  The tall hobbit slumped way down in his chair.  “Oh…  All my corners are filled, I can’t eat another bite.”  Éowyn put her face into his shoulder, giggling again. “Well, maybe another.”  Merry reached across the table, straining.  Arwen covered her mouth to hide a widening smile.  Faramir sighed, shifting so that Éowyn could better lean against him.  She is, I think, quite drunk.

No, no…only slightly, I feel very good and warm.  Hobbits are funny little things.  She slid her chair a little closer to put her arm around him and lay her cheek on his shoulder. 

Enjoying her nearness, Faramir glanced down at her golden head, glad at least that he was no longer angering or saddening her.  Why is it he always makes me lose my temper?  He eyed Éomer; the man was deliberately not looking their way to, Faramir assumed, avoid seeing her cuddle closer.  Amused, he realized something and asked her, am I being used as a giant pillow?

Yes, and you’re quite comfortable.  Éowyn stroked his neck, her fingertips tracing around his collar.  He felt her smile in her words, her mind.  I might have to use you later.  

Is that right?  Will I finally get into that wonderfully soft bed?  She laughed in her head; the surrounding conversations broke their internal one.

Aragorn only looked annoyed.  “Merry, that is not…exactly…proper language in the Shire and I’m sure it is not proper here.”  Frodo and Sam had gone away with Gandalf to sit beside Elrond; Faramir wondered if Aragorn felt like he should at least preserve some manners in the younger hobbits with the temporary absence of their elders.

Éomer laughed, toying with his own goblet of wine.  Faramir thought he’d drunk the least.  Perhaps he fears losing control.  He looked at his own all but untouched spirits.  Perhaps I do, too.  The King of Rohan grinned, “And I thought hobbits were innocent folk.”

“You, my oversized friend, were deceived.”  Pippin smiled and popped a bit of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by another.  He gave Aragorn a mischievous look.  “Unlike my retiring cousin, I have many corners yet…and all shall be filled today.”  The hobbit sounded thoughtful, “You know, it is not every afternoon that I’m so completely sated—”

“Pippin!”

“What?  Fine!”  Pippin sighed deeply and reached far across the table to snatch up some corn.  He bit into the ear; the vegetable looked gigantic in his small hands and Faramir hid his smile, not wanting to offend.  I don’t know how he can hold that…must be sheer will power alone keeping it in his fingers.

Éowyn smiled.  “I like hobbits.”  She giggled,  “I want to be one.” 

Arwen smiled back across the table, her own laughter bubbling up.  “I do, too.”  The two women laughed then, loud and wild, and, amazed, he wondered how much Arwen had had to drink.  Éomer snorted, shaking his head,

“Forget the hobbit, Aragorn…that was not proper.”  His eyes met Faramir’s and the message would have been clear without any abilities—my sister had better not know why she is laughing, Steward.

The women looked at the sober, puzzled men and laughed harder.  I don’t even think I know why she’s laughing.  Éowyn raised her head off of his shoulder and Faramir listened in further amazement as she snickered and teased, “Yes, brother and that song you made up involving the great river and a Gondor woman bathing after a night with her lover…that was perfectly proper, wasn’t it?”

Incredibly, Éomer flushed a dark red.  “I know no song about…that, sister.”

“No?”  She looked too smug.

Arwen smiled.  “Sing it.  Now, Éowyn.”

Éomer said quickly, “I think not.”  Faramir chuckled, amused and surprised to see the man so thrown off balance.

Éowyn sat up in her chair, clearing her throat.  “You want the long version or the short, Arwen?”

The Queen giggled, but managed to get out, “Long.”

Pippin made a face; “You don’t like short?”

Aragorn scowled.  “Be quiet and behave, Peregrin.”  Merry laughed as Pippin scowled back, mimicking the King’s expression.  Faramir began to wonder if all were drunk or almost so except for him, Éomer and Aragorn.  It is the middle of the afternoon…but, then, it is a feast…

“What?  It was a question!”

“You will not ask my wife such questions!”

“Shh!  All of you!”  Éowyn took a deep breath.  “In geardagas…wait, Aragorn, you translate for me, make this easy.”

“I,” He paused, “will,” Aragorn glared, spitting out, “not.”

Arwen punched his shoulder, laughing lightly.  “Do it, do it, Estel.  I want to hear.”  The King looked at her, stunned, and then nodded slowly.  To Faramir’s curiosity he immediately grinned at Éowyn, as though communicating something.  She smiled back encouragingly; Faramir sensed she was happy for him.  Perhaps they are no longer fighting.  Thrilled as well, Faramir looked to his love…did she help somehow?  Éomer made one last effort,  

“You’re not singing it, I forbid it, Éowyn, no!” 

“Éomer, yes, I am!”  Cheeks flushed, her blue eyes sparkling, she shushed her brother again.  “Now, quiet!”  Faramir watched, incredulous that the man would allow this, allow himself to be humiliated in his own hall.  I think only she could tease him so.  This is the different side to her, the bold girl again. It was getting harder to identify the emergence of Éowyn’s impertinent half; she’d become so accustomed to him, so fearless.  Faramir did not mind the difficulties; they only pleased him.  I like it—so shameless, brass…singing a lewd song!  He smiled as Éowyn began once more, “In geardagas…” She gave Aragorn an expectant look and he put his hand over his eyes, muttering,

“In days gone by…”

“Aww, Strider, sing!”

“Sing it!”  The hobbits chorused, only to be snapped at,

“No!”

Arwen patted his hand, commanding, “Estel, sing for me!” 

Éowyn laughed, sitting straight.  She smiled, singing clearly, “A cwen hwæt Gondor eode tó se easteð, ond sægþ…”

“A woman from Gondor went to the riverbank and said…” Aragorn sang well, but sounded as though he was under the threat of great and terrible torture.  Faramir understood a few of the words in Rohirric and he thought Éowyn’s voice was beautiful, slightly roughened from the wine and even almost roughened with cheek at the song itself.  He looked at her as she went on, singing slowly, suggestively and with a little giggle,

“Min lufiend aleoga…” There was silence and they all turned to Aragorn, who shook his head rapidly.  Faramir could only translate the first two words.  My lover…what?  He judged by the King’s expression that it was rather bold.

“I am not singing that in public.”

“What is it?  I’ll sing it!”  Pippin cried recklessly.  Merry laughed, still slumped with his little hands resting upon his rounded stomach. 

“Never challenge a Took over wanton songs!”

“Listen.”  Éowyn giggled her way through the words she whispered into the hobbit’s pointed ear and Pippin grinned wide as he sang, deliberately very high and womanish,

“My lover left me unfulfilled…” It broke them all up for a few moments; Faramir grinned, feeling merry for the first time during the feast.

“Éomer…!”  Arwen was red-faced, breathless with laughter.  The King of Rohan put his head in his hands, groaning in embarrassment. 

            Éowyn laughed at her brother, continuing in her clear, sweet voice, “Ond hwil she ongyrwen,” 

At her expectant look, Aragorn muttered, “And while she undressed,”

            “She sægþ: Lagustream, niman min bodig…”

            He glowered.  “No.  I will not.”

            Pippin yelped, “Me!  Me!”  Again Éowyn giggled wildly, but managed to impart the words.  Pippin sang, gesturing bawdily enough to make them all laugh, “She said: River, take my body…”

            “Why?”  Éomer sighed.  “Why did you remember this horrid thing, Éowyn?”

            Aragorn growled at him, “Why’d you make it?”

            “I was a boy!  I didn’t know better!”  The King of Rohan slumped in his great, carved chair; his hands hung over the wooden, flared nostrils of the horses that adorned the arms.  “And I certainly didn’t think she’d ever hear it to sing it.  It gets worse.  Far worse.”

            “Well, I’m not going to…”

            Arwen was laughing delightedly and she cut him off, “I think it’s wonderful!”

“Shh!  Lagustream…gret min cneo, min hrif, ond min botm mid eower mid finger brim…  Gret min bósm mid eower finger…mid min finger, eower hand is min hand…min nîwe lufiend…” Éowyn dissolved into more giggles, this time hysterically, even as Aragorn shook his head in outright refusal.  Faramir understood just enough to burst out in astonished laughter himself.  The song…is about a woman alone…touching…  I can’t believe he made that up…! Never, never I would have thought to…

            Aragorn was still shaking his head, “No one is saying that, the song is over!”

            Merry wailed in protest, “I want to hear!”

            “No!”

            Arwen slapped the table, “No!  Finish it!”

            “All right; and I’ll translate it at the end, since Aragorn is such a old maid that he cannot.”  She took a deep breath, singing airily, “Ge-logian eower hand betweox min…”

            Both Kings yelped, “Éowyn!”  Faramir was too astonished to speak; he understood that well enough.  There was silence then, broken only the women’s wild laughter, Arwen’s apparently at the expressions occupying the men’s faces.  Éowyn finally sobered and smiled,

“I know another, if you like, Arwen.”

            Again Éomer and Aragorn spoke as one, “NO!”

            Hugely amused and still shocked, Faramir asked her, his voice low, “How’d you learn these…things?”  He glanced around the Hall.  If any had heard, they were not offended by the lyrics—he sensed no disapproval.  Such a song would not have been tolerated at the High Table in the City… he frowned, thinking.  Surely she wouldn’t…

            She twisted a lock of gold around her finger.  “Éomer cut my hair half off—I looked like a stable-boy.  He didn’t even recognize me.”  Éowyn smirked, “I learned lots of things.”

            “What kinds of things?”  Arwen looked intrigued and then she laughed, “I think a better question, Faramir, is where did Éomer learn things like that?”

Éomer growled at his sister, “You’re not answering either of those.”  Faramir laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him. 

You’re adorable. 

You’re a flatterer.  She scooted her chair so that the arm touched his and she leaned against his shoulder again.  The circlet of gold touched his cheek; it was warm.  But that’s a perfectly tolerable quality, I suppose.  He took her hand to play with her fingers, massaging them.  Oh, that feels good...

After a moment the Queen smiled wickedly, glancing at Aragorn, “I know a poem about the King’s scepter…”

He looked horrified, choking on a sip of wine.  “NO!” 

Éomer grinned, looking at Aragorn, still toying with his full goblet.  Faramir had not touched his in a long time.  “You wrote it didn’t you?”

            “I did not.”

            “Well, then, it might be good.”  He gestured to Arwen, “Let’s hear it.”

            But the Queen had something else on her mind, “Might be good?”  She eyed her husband, “Estel, did you share your poetry?”

            Aragorn made a noncommittal noise.  Éomer’s grin widened, “He did.  It was awful.”

            “I know…raven does not really rhyme with Lúthien, does it?”  Faramir laughed out of sheer perplexity…why would he do that?  “And that wasn’t nearly the worst.”  Curious, she asked, “Where did you hear it?”

            “In a tavern in the City.”

            “Tavern?”
            Faramir thought that if Éomer noticed the dangerous tone in Arwen’s voice, it seemed only to amuse him.  “Yes.”  Arwen fell silent then and Faramir felt her mood shift back into the state of stony hardness it had been at the beginning of the feast, though he was unsure why…didn’t he used to do go into inns and taverns all the time?  The others, too, fell quiet and snatches of conversations from around them flowed back and forth.  A servant moved to refill Éowyn’s goblet and Éomer gestured him away.  Feeling her stiffen and grow angry, Faramir tensed.  She sat up, lifting her head from his shoulder and taking back her hand as she said coolly,

            “Undoubtedly a good idea, brother.  I might embarrass myself.”  Her eyes were as carefully detached as her tone; “I’ve already embarrassed you.”

            “I did not mean…” Éomer looked uncomfortable.  “Do not begin this now.”

            Faramir watched the man fiddle with what remained upon his plate, trying to ignore her purposeful stare.  He tensed further when Éowyn turned to him, sensing the challenge in her.  Blue eyes demanded, “Faramir, tell me, will you do things like that?”
            What?  Nonplussed, he didn’t know what to say; he could find no diplomatic response that would please them both.  Faramir was acutely aware of Éomer’s attention; both their gazes rested upon him and he felt pinned in place, bound between brother and sister.  What do they want from me?  Aragorn winced, giving him a look of deep sympathy.  Merry, Pippin and Arwen frowned, the Queen’s eyes narrowing while her mind filled with an interest he could not define.  They were all waiting upon an answer, so he gave them the truth—it was all he could think to do.  “No, I won’t.” 

            She looked gratified, but Éomer shook his head bitterly.  “Of course you won’t, you’ll not pay attention, let her run wild and then…” He bit off his words, looking away. 

            Éowyn snapped back, “Perhaps he sees that I am not a child to be overseen at all times.” 

            “I do not oversee you!  I care about you and very soon I will not see—” Éomer fell silent and Faramir cursed his gift I wish, I wish I could be deafened to this as he mentally finished the sentence…you at all.  The unspoken words were painfully apparent; judging by the way that all eyes fell.

            A stiff silence reigned.  Aragorn eventually broke it with a sigh, tapping his knife on his plate; the ringing noise reverberated through Faramir’s head, restarting his headache.  “Come, let us not fight, my dear friends.  Not today of all days.”  It was well intentioned, but none spoke.  Like birdsong in the background, barely heard, he could sense the King tripping through various topics before settling.  “Tell us, Faramir,” Why me?  He wondered tiredly.  “How far along have you come with Emyn Arnen?”

            Immediately both Éomer and Éowyn were paying attention and he could feel their anxiety pressing upon him, but it was Merry who spoke.  “You know, the sooner you can finish, the sooner,” The hobbit grinned, trying to lighten the mood, “we can come back to visit you.”

              She relaxed and Faramir found himself doing the same; Éowyn smiled, happy at the thought,  “I would love that, Merry.”  Teasing, she added, “The both of you, the four of you.  You could bring your wives and all your children to stay for a while.”  Glancing over, she added for him alone, Imagine, little hobbit children, they’d be like puppies, I bet—all roly-poly and rumble-tumble with pointed ears and curly hair and feet too big for them.

            He smiled; I’d feel like a giant.

Pippin snorted, “None of us are getting married very soon…” The hobbit glanced down the table towards Frodo and Sam and a sly glint came into his eye.  “At least I’m not.  You have plenty of time, Faramir.” 

Merry nodded, “You should come and visit us, Éowyn.  We’ll show you how beautiful the Shire is.”  Faramir felt her delight at the prospect. 

“Aragorn shouldn’t come.”  The Took looked smug when the King asked,

“Why not?” 

“Because.”  He grinned, “You’ll have to bow to me when I’m the Thain and Merry, too, when he’s the Master and I don’t think you can bow that low.”

            “Oh, will I?”  The cheerful banter was broken by a sudden, deep question,

“How far along are you, exactly, Faramir?”

            Éomer’s voice was careful, too much so.  Tensing again, Faramir replied, “I’ve picked a site and I’ve some plans drawn—”

***

“That’s it?”  His anger, so recently cooled, flooded him again.  Éomer kept his face expressionless, his voice neutral—only his hands betrayed him, fingers tapping irritably at the jewels on his golden crown.  He’s set it before him on the table and it shone.  It was, to his relief; nowhere near the lavish thing Aragorn dealt with, but still, the weight of it bothered him.  His sister frowned, but this topic he could not drop.  Picked the site?  Some plans drawn?  Does he have any idea?  “No further?”

“Well,” Faramir was treading just as carefully as he was.  They were both mindful of Éowyn, her gaze going back and forth.  “I was kept too occupied over the summer to ride much into Ithilien.”  There was the subtle flash in the man’s grey eyes; “Learning what I have of Rohirric took up a great deal of my time.”

  Time?  What duties does this man do?  Stewards are counselors!  Aragorn has an entire room of those useless creatures!  What could Faramir possibly add?  “I see.”

His sister, who’d been smiling a moment ago, was gradually fading.  Slumping, she played with her ring; the flickers caught his eye as it moved.  It was a pretty thing, but it would not take the place of meaningful deeds or useful activity for her.  Does he think her happiness can be bought with trinkets?  She likes it, yes, but what when my sister is expected to sit idle in the courts with the nattering women?  She will waste away and she knows it, too…she will not be happy so.  Does he not realize?  Must I tell him this?  Worried, he asked in a sharp voice, “How long before you will be able to house my sister fittingly?”  She would be happy with duties, with actions to plan, people to care for…in the White City there is naught for her to focus upon.  Too long it was that I did not see her unhappiness, how is he to know?  He’s spent barely any time with her.  Éowyn lies well when she wants.  Terribly worried now, he asked, “Do you at least have men ready to begin building?” 

Faramir’s diplomacy held strong under the questions, when he answered it was courteously removed.  “I’m not sure how long.  I have no one ready.”

            She would be happier left here, where she is of use.  The Steward’s gaze seemed to freeze for a second, puzzling Éomer—it was like the man had reacted to his thought; mystified, he said nothing as Faramir continued. 

            “It will be a year, maybe more, until it is completed enough.  There are few settlements deep in Ithilien yet, the shadow of the Dark Land still lingers enough to make them wary of establishing permanent homes very far from the river.”

            He will be Prince of an empty country.  My sister shall wither away in the City if few are willing to enter deep enough into Ithilien yet.  He will need stoneworkers, carpenters, men upon men.  Camps to hold them, food…winter comes, will he even build in winter?  Horrified, Éomer thought, will my sister sit at leisure until spring?  She would, I think, rather die.  Again Faramir’s eyes betrayed something odd, a quick gleam, but he kept on, “As soon as I return, I will begin.”  Ah, so there he challenges me.  As soon as he returns…he is eager and would no doubt like for his tour of duty to be quickly finished.  Éomer looked at his beloved sister.  The sooner he returns, the sooner I am alone. 

            All challenges, no matter how small, deserved to be met—anything less would be indications of softness.  “Your return depends upon how quickly you learn.”  Faramir did something then, almost a recoil.  It bewildered Éomer; he’s not spoken that harshly.  Immediately his sister glanced at the man, her eyes piercing with concern. 

            This time it was Aragorn, who spoke, “How long do you expect, Éomer?  How long until I have my Steward back?”

            “He starts in two days—we’ll give him a horse tomorrow and some simple duty the next day,” He took a drink of his wine, tempted to jest about Faramir mucking stalls, but did not, “and then he’ll ride with a small company.” 

“Good.”  Aragorn looked relieved. 

I, too, will go.  Éowyn can look after Edoras perfectly well.  He feared Faramir might be harassed if sent alone and as far as he knew the Steward had no friends among the Rohirrim.  I might not like him much, but she does…  He’d seen the man take her hand and he’d watched Éowyn lean against him; neither action had bothered him, Faramir, at least, was discreet and refrained from kissing or openly caressing her.  Éomer had observed particularly closely during the song, waiting for any signs of reproach—there had been none.  I have not seen my sister so lighthearted and laughing in a long time…if there is any chance he caused or contributed to it, he smiled grimly, I must make sure he stays alive and well to return to her.  Éomer looked into his wine, watching it swirl.  No matter what it does to me.

***

            Now she’d been reminded of her future and Éowyn toyed with her ring, moving it around and around on her finger.  I’d all but forgotten…Faramir glanced sideways at her, looking troubled.  She’d been glad that the both of them, this time at least, had been able to converse without resorting to childishness, but now all was quiet.  He jumped inside; I wonder what for…something bad, I felt it when my brother said those words.  She abandoned playing with her ring and took Faramir’s hand.  He gave her a small smile; it was weary.

            Across the table Arwen was looking forbidding again.  Éowyn had been gladdened when she’d spoke to Aragorn and when she’d laughed at the song.  I wonder what plagues her so…it was an attempt to escape, thinking about the elven woman’s trials, to forget again her impending separation from her homeland, her brother.  Pondering Arwen did not work and she looked at her brother—he stared down into his wine, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark.  Beside her, Faramir shifted, stretching out his long legs.  His uneasiness she could feel; Éomer’s she could guess.  How long?  How long will my brother put him through his paces like a horse that is tried before buying?  I doubt even he knows.  It could not be forever; certainly Éomer could not get away with it any longer than a month.  Aragorn would send for Faramir, I think. 

            Lifting her eyes, she gazed over the crowded tables.  All were finished now, only nibbling at pieces of food and sipping their drinks as they told stories or gossiped and she wondered when her brother would call an end to the feast.  I wish soon.  Éowyn looked outside, it was late afternoon, getting close to sunset.  It is later than I thought; I am tired.  She wanted a bath and then to rest.  The ghost of Faramir’s headache had been flitting through her temples every once in a while, bothering her—at the moment it pulsed just out of focus, distracting. 

As though he’d heard her, Éomer looked her way.  He smiled with his eyes firm on hers; there was a glint of pure grief in them, but love shone through it as he stood.  Faramir shifted at her side, coming suddenly aware.  Conversations waned then halted all over the great Hall as people noticed her brother standing, waiting for their attention.  He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment, gathering himself.  When he spoke it was in a tone that betrayed none of his sadness the second before, but was quite jovial.  “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister.”  His voice stuttered just slightly; she doubted anyone but her noticed.  “Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as never before been gathered in this hall!”  Here he paused again, no more than an eye blink, but it was to glance at her and smile bravely before continuing. 

Éomer hates speeches, she thought and felt herself weak with sorrow.  “Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing.  Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

Éowyn stood as he extended his hand; it gripped hers firmly, a reminder of thousands of other times.  Faramir stood as well, coming behind her.  He was grand in the dim hall, light glinting off of his armor.  Her brother was, too, but Éomer gleamed with the dark chestnut of well-tanned leather with gold, green and ivory—colors of the earth beneath her feet, her wild, wide homeland.  Faramir was darker, black shining with brilliant white and cool silver —his colors told of a lifetime in shadows beneath a threatening gloom and only a far-off promise of light.  The contrasts seemed to embody everything to her for a moment.  Sun-beorht, niht-helm…no wonder they cannot get along…  She stood before the amassed peoples, feeling overly conscious that all eyes were upon them.  Aragorn smiled, looking happy and Arwen brightened too.  Merry and Pippin did as well, the younger hobbit giving her a wide grin.  Faramir came close and his mind was gentle, offering what support he could until he stiffened, feeling her brother’s scrutiny.  

The men stared at each other over her head for a second too long, locked in some struggle she couldn’t understand before Éomer put her hand in Faramir’s and spoke cheerfully, “Drink, Riders and my fair guests!  Drink to the union between Rohan and our staunchest ally!”  Despite his words, there was a clear threat in his eyes; Faramir’s expression was neutral, but there was steel below it—she could sense him grow adamant, his stance rigid in response.  Éowyn gritted her teeth, feeling trapped.  They towered over her, one broad, the other spare, but both braced, tensed as though in contest.  There is fight in them still; I shall have to imprison them before this is over, I think.  She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the thought—both would have been bitter.

The two youngest hobbits upended their oversized goblets, and then whooped loudly, making her laugh and both men beside her relax.  Frodo and Sam smiled, their eyes shining with amusement; Gandalf was gazing with particular interest at Faramir, his bushy eyebrows furrowed and the rest stood glad.  Her brother’s voice came a little easier; he looked at her alone, “Thus, is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound in a new bond, and the more do I rejoice.”  It was a lie…and yet not, I think.  She smiled for the crowd, feeling helpless. 

Aragorn said teasingly, “No niggard are you, Éomer, to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!”  Arwen’s eyes went from her husband to Éowyn, who wanted to laugh again.  Is that why she’s mad?  Does she think…?  It was absurd, so she put the thought from her head.  Her brother had grown tense again at the King’s good-natured words and Faramir’s feet shifted apprehensively, his hand tight on hers. 

Oh, help me, Éowyn thought and spoke, hoping he would hear the plea, “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”  Can you hear me, Aragorn?  Will you help, as I will try to help you?  Friends together?  His dark eyes narrowed just a tiny bit and Aragorn inclined his head, answering with his speech formal,

“I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee.  It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.”  There was the smallest of nods and she smiled in return.  Thank you.

***

Éowyn pulled away, giving them both a cautious smile and sitting once more as Merry chattered happily at her, but he was unaware of the hobbit’s words.  Éomer stepped close, his hand falling hard upon his shoulder and his voice was low in Faramir’s ear.  “Ic alecg ge hwa Ic lufie mæst, tó healden fægen ond hal.  Do ná bræc ge-leafa mid me.”  His eyes were impenetrable, “Do you understand?”  He was smiling for the amassed peoples, as though they exchanged no more than a pleasant word, but his mood was harsh.

Not all …but the idea, oh yes.  “Gea, Ic do.”  With an effort he kept his tone deferential, completely composed, and the King of Rohan moved away to reseat himself.  Some of the gathered, now released, were dispersing—mainly the elves, but some soldiers as well.  Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir were moving together, approaching; the tall elf shook his head, interrupting the twins’ even before they could speak.

They are a ragtag duo, my Lady, pure trouble...”

 “They are nice…” Faramir smiled as she protested. 

“Nice?”  The elf scoffed teasingly, using his body to block her from Elrond’s sons.  The twins frowned.  “Nay, my Lady!  You don’t have to talk to them—they are not worth your time.”

Éowyn laughed, her tone lightening.  “I like Elrohir and Elladan.”

“Glorf—” One of the twins began in exasperation, but was cut off. 

“They are naught but common rabble!  Unworthy of…”

The other twin asked irritably,  “Can we ask her the question?”

“No!”  The tall elf straightened dramatically and Éowyn burst into giggles, finally nodding and sobering a bit,

“Yes, you may.”

“Ah, you’ll regret it—one question leads to thousands…” Glorfindel shook his golden mane.  “Best to deny it ever happened, my Lady—” He leaned close, lowering his voice into a conspirator’s whisper, his eyes bright with mischief, “Or you’ll be labeled a hero and never let be.”  Throwing his arms out, he cried, voice high with mock distress, “It was always, Glorfindel, there’s a beast, come and slay it…or Glorfindel, there’s a noise outside, go and see what it is—!”  She laughed helplessly; Arwen shook her head, a smile on her lips.  “It is always I who must take the brash and daring tasks of slaying bugs and rousting dust balls…it is quite unfair, let others share in my accolades!”

One of Elrond’s sons lost his temper, snapping, “Glorfindel!”

“Fine, fine…” The tall elf sighed deeply and leaned in to hiss, “Lie, my Lady, lie when they ask you was it big and terribly fierce?  Tell them it was rather small and sickly!  Trust me, I know from experience, these things will haunt you for the rest of your days!”  He grew sly, “Though, I swear time and again it was another bearing my name who did the great deed.”

Her face smoothing with an effort, she said, “Ask me.”  Beneath her smile and bright blue eyes Faramir felt her dread of the question and he wondered what it was about, protectively sliding a bit nearer.

“We wanted to…” Elrohir, he thought it was, paused, warily eyeing the tall elf and then continued.  “We wanted to know if it was difficult for you to—”

After the elves had departed, Faramir struggled to hold himself calm.  Éomer’s torment threatened his mind, flooding it with dark emotions, making him angry and muddled as well—the man was exceedingly strong.  I’ve done this once, he thought…I became him…I don’t wish to do it again.  He was afraid the strain, after the labors of Théoden’s funeral, would shatter him like glass.  He thinks about her lying still and pale, he thought she was dead…  Faramir gritted his teeth, trying to push the man’s thoughts away.  Éowyn was quiet, subdued.  She’d answered the twins’ question, but had fallen silent immediately.  He sensed her unease.

The hall had grown louder even as it emptied and Pippin, then Merry pulled out their pipes using the candles on the table and bits of wood they’d apparently carried in to light them.  Aragorn looked wistfully at them, but the hobbits made a great show of ignoring him and were soon puffing smoke his way.

Éomer and Arwen looked disgusted, Éowyn had a strange expression upon her face; she swallowed and glanced at him—it was almost worried.  Faramir frowned.  What?

Nothing…nothing. When he silently probed, she added, You do not remember.

Remember what?

The…dream, the smoke reminded…it was nothing, really.  Éowyn didn’t feel like it had been nothing—she felt upset.  Giving him a forced smile and standing, she excusing herself.  “I’m afraid I’m leaving you here.”  She was smiling at the hobbits.  “Among these terribly dull and oversized folk.”

“Nooo!”  Pippin whined, playing along, but Merry looked perturbed. 

“We’ll do something tomorrow, Éowyn?”  He grinned around the pipe stem, but his keen eyes were wary; Pippin perked up and his expression made Faramir wonder just what he was thinking of.  Unfocused mischief was prominent in the Took’s mind as Merry went on.  “We only have a few days before...”

            “Of course.”  She nodded quickly, “We’ll do something.”  Éowyn bowed just a little to Aragorn and Arwen; the King inclined his head in return, his gaze steady.  She then smiled back to him, “Faramir.”  You still want to be my pillow later?  I’m taking a bath, so it will be a while, but…   

            My love, oh, yes.  He smiled in return; despondent she was leaving, and worried.  What bothers you?  Tell me then?  Was it the question? His and Éomer’s behavior?  He didn’t know for sure.  Perhaps all together.

            Éowyn did not answer him.  Instead, she moved around to the head of the table to the back of her brother’s chair and put her arms around him.  Her lips moved; she was speaking into his ear.  Éomer’s hand clasped her arm; he turned, nodding very slightly and Éowyn smiled.  It was a far happier smile than he’d been able to get from her all day and Faramir was jealous until he caught himself.  She is right, we are children.  Éomer’s eyes lifted to his—they looked grudging and his mood was one of reluctance.  And yet…he gloats; Faramir knew why immediately.  I, I got only a smile, while he gets a hug, a private word…unreasonably jealous, he glared back at the King of Rohan, who smiled slowly.  Éowyn hugged her brother again, murmuring and his answer broke their eye contact.  Whatever she says, he will do, though he does not wish to.  She put a small kiss upon her brother’s temple, and then she left. 

            A moment later, Arwen stood.  “I’m afraid, I too, shall be leaving.”  She inclined her head to Éomer and, ignoring Aragorn altogether, followed Éowyn.  The King gazed after her, mournful. 

***

Faramir would not leave and Éomer toyed with his wine, looking at him in irritation.  His sister had departed almost an hour ago and now the great Hall stood all but empty.  Only a few conversing groups remained.  At the head of the table, he was alone with Aragorn, the two hobbits and…him.  The Steward had leaned back in his chair, apparently content to sit quiet while Merry and Pippin chattered.  Go away, Éomer thought.  He could not relax in Faramir’s presence. 

The Steward’s grey eyes flicked in his direction then returned to Aragorn, who’d been looking at Pippin’s pipe for quite some time.  Suddenly the King snatched it. 

“Hey!” 

“Oh, be quiet.”  He held it up, just out of the Took’s reach.  Pippin’s face screwed into a fierce scowl and he drew back one fist to hit Aragorn in the midsection, but he said quickly,

“Don’t you dare Peregrin Took!  You are still in my service!”  Inhaling deeply, he looked satisfied as he blew out of long stream of smoke.  Ugh, disgusting.  I don’t know how he enjoys that. 

“Give…it…back!”  The smaller hobbit lunged upwards with each exclamation, but couldn’t reach, so he began to climb up, intending to stand upon his chair.  Aragorn, seeing this, took another quick puff; Éomer tried not to laugh and failed completely.  He guffawed, delighted, as the hobbit stood swaying and grabbing at the pipe Aragorn held just out of reach.  Faramir, he noticed, wore only a light smile at the spectacle.  He has, I believe, no sense of humor.  Merry pulled Pippin back down and handed him his own pipe.

“Here, cousin.  I’ll share.” 

“A generous family of Hobbits, Brandybucks are.”

“And a greedy man you are!”

Aragorn scolded, “Pippin.”  He shook his head, “Greedy, am I?  It seems I remember some hobbits that had in their possession two bags of pipe-weed and could not share one for their good friend—nor could they tell him where they’d gotten it.”

Éomer chuckled, amused at the King’s clear exasperation.  Pippin sighed, “I told you, we didn’t remember…Shadowfax found it.”

“The horse.” 

“Yes, he did.  He’s very smart.”

“The hobbit has a point.”  Éomer grinned as Aragorn gave him a dark look.  “Mearas are very intelligent.”

“Do not take his side.”

He laughed, feeling relaxed until Faramir spoke, reminding him of his presence.  “How smart?”

It is a simple question…she asked me to be civil…he answered brusquely, barely looking at the Steward, “About as intelligent as a child.”

Aragorn stirred, but was silent as Faramir went on.  The hobbits shared the pipe, blowing smoke everywhere; their bright eyes peered out of it.  “How do you measure that?”

Why do you care?  “You can tell when they are foals—they learn quicker, remember better.” 

Apparently, the man had many questions. And all are annoying…do they teach nothing in the White City? “Are all mearas white?”

“They are dark when they are born, but,” He sighed, “they turn grey as they mature.”  There is no such thing as a white horse you fool.  Leave me be.

“Do you train them differently?”  Did he do this with Halorl?  Éomer felt his irritation rise; he was barely able to keep from snapping,

“You don’t train a mearas—you ask and they decide whether to learn or not.”  He ground his teeth, anticipating the next query, “Shadowfax declined.” 

His words had been somewhat sharper than he’d intended, but it had the desired effect—Faramir did not ask another question.  After a moment, Aragorn handed Pippin’s pipe back to him.  The hobbit looked pleased, but Merry frowned and when he eyed the King, he nodded and then hopped off of his chair.  “Come on, cousin…let’s go and see what Frodo’s doing.”

“Frodo?  Sam’s probably already gotten him—oh.”  The Took nodded rapidly at Aragorn’s dark stare.  “Right, Frodo, yes, we’ll go see what…he’s doing.  Goodnight Éomer, Faramir.” 

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”  The hobbits bowed low and left, their bare feet padding. What was that about?  Faramir glanced his way; he, too, looked slightly puzzled.

Aragorn sighed deeply; his expression was reluctant, but firm.  What…why?  Éomer had the strange feeling he’d gotten as a lad, the guilty anticipation that came moments before he’d received a scolding, but the King turned first to Faramir.  His tone was weary, “Gandalf wanted to have a word with you…it will have to be tomorrow, I suppose.” 

“Oh…?”  The Steward glanced his way, but Aragorn kept speaking,

“I would have told you earlier, but I was comforting Éowyn,” Now his tone was unforgiving, harsh, “she was weeping alone in the halls while you two sat here glaring at each other.”  Éomer stiffened, weeping alone in the halls?  A chair down, Faramir shifted, his brow creasing; he looked guilty to Éomer.  What did he do?

“And it wasn’t him, Éomer.”  Obviously his suspicious glower had been too noticeable.  “I don’t know what,” He gestured between them, his lip slightly curled with repugnance, “this is, but I’m tired of it and so is she.”  Aragorn did, indeed, look tired as he went on.  “There is no reason the two of you cannot get along.”  He paused, gazing back and forth between them, as though waiting for a reply.

Faramir seemed about to speak, but he did not.  Éomer tapped his fingers upon his crown again, angered.  It rattled just slightly on the table, jewels and gold glinting.  I am not a child and Aragorn is no parent of mine to lecture me about my behavior—that was what it felt like.  For a briefest of seconds, as the King continued his eyes met Faramir’s grey ones and there was the same aggravated amusement there…but he quickly looked away.  This is ridiculous.

 “Now, as I see it, the two of you can use your arrangement to do one of two things,” Aragorn held up his hand, index finger raised, “One: kill each other and make Éowyn and all of your friends very upset.”  He paused, “Or, two: become friends and make Éowyn and everyone very happy.”

Kill first.  For the smallest of instants Éomer would have sworn Faramir glanced at him and came close to bursting out in laughter…but that was ridiculous, too.  He cannot hear my thoughts, he’s not an elf…he wondered if his face had been too telling; Éomer leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and blanking his expression. 

“I think the second option would be best, don’t you?”  Aragorn asked bluntly, looking back and forth.  He was clearly waiting for an answer this time and Éomer muttered,

“Yes.”

Faramir did the same. “Yes.”  Again, their eyes met and again, he had the impression the Steward felt like laughing as he did, but could not quite do so—Aragorn’s adopted position of father figure was too strong. 

Aragorn looked pleased, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward to ask in a more cheerful tone, “Good.  Now what’s the problem?”

Oh, no…no, I won’t.  He clamped his lips, refusing to speak.  What did the elves do to him?  This is not how a man solves things…

Faramir was gazing about absently, mute as well and after a few seconds of complete silence had elapsed and it became clear neither of them would talk, the King slapped the table hard as he could, making the plates, cups and utensils jump and the candles flames flicker wildly, “Speak!”

He’s gone mad…  The Steward’s eyes narrowed, but he was silent and Éomer gritted his teeth.  Fine, if he is too cowardly… “What do you want?”

“Why can you not get along?”  Every word was a growl.

Why?  He asks why?  “You know why.”

“I want you to explain it…everything.  In detail.”

“No.”

“Yes, Éo—”

“No.”  It was final.

“Fine!”  Aragorn stared at the table top, then spat furiously, “Faramir, you’re going first.  Now, I think we’re both fairly aware of his,” Éomer was treated to a glare, “objections to you, so, tell us yours to him.”

He shifted, looking uncomfortable, “I…don’t know…”

“You don’t know?  You seemed to know when you fought him in Gondor.”

“He…” Éomer stiffened, waiting and finding himself bizarrely interested as Faramir began haltingly,  “He…doesn’t…he doesn’t trust me with Éowyn...”

His anger exploded, “Trust you?  Why would I?  Every time I see you you’ve got your damn hands—”

“Quiet!” Aragorn’s eyes were like a sword shining sharp and threatening and he feel silent, “You didn’t want to talk!”  The King turned back to Faramir, “Go on.”

He grimaced, “I don’t see why…if she trusts me and you trust her, then you can’t trust me.”

“Very good.”  Aragorn looked pleased and Éomer felt like retching.  “Go on.”

Faramir’s words came just a little easier, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, without complaint, and I’d like a little respect.  You are aware this is ridiculous, right?  I do this because I respect you and what you want for a man for Éowyn.”  He paused, thinking.

Oh, how you lie, Steward.  Respect?  You do not do this out of respect; no, you do this out of desire for my sister and your own foolishness that led you into it like a silly young stallion runs after a mare—you didn’t look where you were going, did you?  And, now you’ve gotten yourself into something you’d rather not…and, assuredly, if I said you could marry her tomorrow, you’d forget ever agreeing to do.    

The man’s grey eyes flashed with anger—it was an anger that puzzled Éomer because he’d not spoken, but he held onto his courtesy, “I’ve tried to make it so that you do not feel I’m stealing her…I think I made it plain you can visit us whenever you wish and that she can come back here…” His brow furrowed, “I don’t understand…surely you saw this coming?  She’s a brave, beautiful, intelligent woman.  She wouldn’t stay here forever, and if it had not been me then it would have been another, Éomer.”  Faramir’s face was pitying?  Éomer felt his innards freeze and his body stiffen, Does he pity me?  The Steward said softly, cautiously, “She’s not a little girl anymore, you’re going to have to let her go.”

His voice fell in the quiet, like drops of ice, hitting the hard floor and shattering.  Éomer thought he would explode trying to contain the cold fury that filled him.  “Do you think I’m not aware of that?”  Gúthwinë felt heavy at his side, burning him through his clothing. 

Faramir’s reply was simple, “By the way you act, no.”

He closed his eyes, trying not to lose his temper.  “You know nothing.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think it’s true.”  Aragorn was looking back and forth, keeping silent, keeping watch. 

“Tell me, then, what you know, Steward.”  The words replied were strange, almost a chant from deep within Faramir as his grey eyes went as dark as storm clouds:

“You think I wouldn’t keep my word, that I’m too eager, that I could never protect her like you could.  You don’t think I can keep her happy, and that I won’t notice if she is unhappy.  You don’t think I know her and you don’t think I can ever know her like you do.  You don’t trust me with her, you saw how afraid she was with men, you think I’ll frighten her…she’s been smiling, you don’t want that to stop.” 

Faramir paused, then his voice came again, lower, “It makes it worse that I’m taking her so far away, and you’re worried she’ll forget you, that you’ll be alone here.  You watched your mother die of loneliness, the sickness wasn’t that bad, she didn’t want to live anymore…everyone you’ve ever loved has died, they got out of your reach, out of your sight and they died.”

Aragorn looked startled.  Éomer stared at him, growing frightened as Faramir drew to a close, “You don’t want to be King, you’re afraid you won’t be good at it, you want her here to help, to support you. She’s better at things like that, better at organizing men, horses, running a kingdom.”  His grey eyes shifted color, lightening again as he added.  “You’re afraid and you hate me because I’m going to take the last person who, when you look at her, you know who you are and what you’re place is.”

There was a dead silence.  Faramir slumped back into his chair as though released from something; the hair at his temples was damp with sweat and the hand that rose to touch them quavered slightly.    Aragorn recovered first, asking, “Éomer?”

He couldn’t speak.  There was no way Faramir could have known those things, not even his sister knew them.  He is a witch.    Now the King’s voice was concerned.  “Éomer?”

“What?”  It came from far away; he stared at the Steward, feeling chills crawl up his spine.  Witch.

“Don’t you…” He trailed off, uncertain. 

After a few heartbeats, Faramir looked at him and Éomer heard it then, unmistakably clear and unmistakably in his head—the man’s lips did not move even the littlest bit.   No, I’m not.

 He jerked back instinctively, the heavy chair scraping on the floor and Éomer fled his own Hall, too unnerved to be ashamed.  What had just occurred was beyond his comprehension. 

***

            She brushed her hair; it was only a little damp still from her bath.   Éowyn stared at herself in the mirror as she worked the bristles through her thick mass of hair.  I wonder when Faramir will come…  It had been a long time.  I suppose he’ll go to his quarters first, to change out of his clothes, mail and such…a little while longer then… 

            Suddenly her door slammed open and she jumped, whirling.  The bedroom door was only cracked and she couldn’t see whoever had entered.  Éowyn gripped her brush tighter, quite ready to use it as a weapon if she had to.  Faramir…is that you?  She doubted it; he didn’t seem the type to go around slamming doors, that was more like...

            “Éowyn?”  It was not Faramir it was her brother.  He sounds…scared…  That was ridiculous.  Éomer was never scared, unless she was hurt or sick or something.  Her robe was on the bed; she grabbed it up and wrapped it around herself as his quick, heavy steps came towards her.

            “I’m in here.”  What could be so wrong? 

Translations:

Éomer’s Song (Rohirric)

In geardagas

A cwen hwæt Gondor eode tó se easteð, ond sægþ…

Min lufiend aleoga…

Ond hwil she ongyrwen she sægþ…

Lagustream, niman min bodig

Lagustream…gret min cneo, min hrif, ond min botm mid eower mid finger brim … 

Gret min bósm mid eower finger…mid min finger, eower hand is min hand…min nîwe lufiend…

Ge-logian eower hand betweox min…

(English)

In days of old

A woman from Gondor went down to the riverbank and said…

My lover left me unfulfilled…

And while she undressed she said…

River, take my body

River…touch my knee, my leg and my bottom with your fingers of water…

Touch my bosom with your finger…with my finger, your hand is my hand…my new lover…

Put your hand between my… 

Sun-beorht, niht-helm—Sun bright, shade of the night…

Ic alecg ge hwa Ic lufie mæst, tó healden fægen ond hal.  Do ná bræc ge-leafa mid me—I give you what I love most, to keep happy and safe.  Do not break faith with me.

Gea, Ic do—Yes, I do.