Aragorn heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop, "Well, you've been a great help.  I had something good going there.  You two were close to an actual, civil conversation, close to really unearthing the foremost problems between you.  Why'd you have to do that?"

            "He asked me to tell him."  It was an effort to speak; Faramir's temples throbbed, the pain stabbing spikes into his head in regular intervals.  He kept his eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths, waiting for his headache to recede.  I did too much, he thought.  Too much today...

The King sighed again; there was the sound of him picking up his goblet of wine, and then drinking.  He put it back down with a clunk that resonated all throughout Faramir's head; he wanted to lie it down, but settled for propping his chin with his palm.  There was slick, clammy sweat on his forehead.  He wiped it off.  Across the table Aragorn was tapping his fingers again, thinking.  After what seemed a long time, he said,

            "You're going to harm yourself, Faramir, if you don't stop."  Aragorn paused before adding, "You don't look well..." His voice became more absentminded, "I can see..." He sounded relieved,  "You just need to rest, I think."

            "Yes."  Imagining his bed, or even better, Éowyn's soft one, he smiled faintly.  What I'd really like is to curl up in her bed with her, and maybe she would sing something nice and low...something soothing...let me just rest against her... quiet and warm and soft...like when I awoke this morning.  So pleasant. 

Now Aragorn sounded stern.  "But not yet."

            "What?"  Opening his eyes, Faramir looked at him; the candlelight made the spikes in his temples drive just a little deeper and he squinted in vain. 

            "Where did he go?"  The King's expression was darkly determined; "We're finishing this tonight, Faramir."

            Oh, no...I can't.  "I...I don't..." His voice was thin, weary.  I sound like an old man.  I feel like one, too. 

            "Don't lie to me."  It was forceful.  "I'm neither blind nor foolish."

            Giving up, he put his head in his hands and groaned, "Éowyn.  He went to see Éowyn."

Aragorn's hard eyes softened just a little.  "Good.  Come on.  She can help us talk sense into him; he'll listen to her, if not me."  The scrapes of their chairs were like a rasp being drawn across his nerves, flaying them, and leaving his head feeling lamed and painful and Faramir grimaced.  Even his teeth hurt from repeatedly clenching his jaw.  This day will never end, will it?

***

            He'd plunged through the halls, his steps quick with agitation and now, in her rooms, he stood in a quandary.  What can I say?  I will sound cowardly.  "What is it?"  His sister's eyes had gone wide at the sight of him; Eomer wondered how disturbed he looked and rubbed at his face.  She tied her robe tight, tossing her flaxen hair off of her shoulders and asking, "What's wrong?"

He still didn't know what to say.  Does she know?  Does he do that with her...speak in her head, read her thoughts?  Éomer shuddered uneasily; the idea made him feel like spiders were creeping on him, their hairy legs tickling his skin.  How horrible that must be to know that he knows everything; what else can Faramir do?  "I...um..."

Éowyn sat on the arm of one of the deep, stuffed armchairs, folding her leg under her.  Her brow was furrowed and she worried her lip between her teeth, looking at him in concern.  "Come, sit by me and tell me."  He hesitated.  Patting the chair's seat, she ordered this time, "Come."

It was a good of a start as any.  "All right."

It was also a trap.  Immediately, she put her arm around his shoulders, leaning on him with her chin close to his collar and murmured, "Émer...tell me what's wrong."  Her childhood version of his name, from, so long ago it seemed now, when she could not say Éomer, never failed and she knew it.  I am doomed.  I cannot lie to that.

            "Faramir..."

            "What?"  Éowyn's voice was slightly defensive and she sat back a little.  "What did he do?"  Her eyes searched him quickly, finding no physical damage on him and no obvious anger in him.  She looked more worried this time, entreating gently,  "Tell me, Éomer?"

            "He's..." Éomer looked at his sister and burst out; "he's a witch."

Her blue eyes were briefly puzzled; "What?"

Éomer repeated, "A witch."  A smile tried to bend her lips, crease her cheeks; Éowyn put her hand to her mouth, folding the knuckles to hide it. 

            "Faramir's a witch?"

Frowning at her lack of reaction, Éomer clarified, "He is.  I heard him talk in my head."

            "Oh."  She looked down at him with her eyes still mystified.  "Is that what you came in here...looking like you saw a ghost...about?"

            "You...know?"  Surely not...surely she could not stand that...who could?  It would be terrible to be so vulnerable...

            His question had been so inaudible with his shock that she'd not heard.  "Did you call him that?"  She looked very close to laughter and he frowned, not understanding.  At his silence Éowyn blurted, almost in delight,  "You did?"

            "I thought it."  His voice was slow, deliberate; Éomer was only half there--the rest of him was stuck thinking, why isn't she more disturbed?  Why?  There was really only one answer. 

            "What did he say?"

            "He said in my mind that he wasn't."  He didn't bother to mention that that had been when he'd bolted from the table.  Shame hadn't touched him then, but it curdled his stomach now.  I ran like a coward.  This is my hall, my home...

            Éowyn laughed, apparently not perturbed at all.  She knew...she's comfortable with it...how?  He gazed at her, suddenly feeling very much as though he sat next to a stranger.  This couldn't be his little sister.  Éomer was afraid and he stared up at her as she smiled.  I've lost her already, haven't I?  Intuitively he added, to something, someone I will never be able to understand.  She's slipped away to a man of whom I'll never be anything less than deeply distrustful.

***

"You need help."

I need silence.  I need Éowyn.

"You can't go on like this...you'll hurt yourself.  I can tell how strained you are, how little strength you have with almost no reserves even...it's not healthy to keep doing this, Faramir."

I just want to rest.  I want sleep.

"Gandalf was very concerned when he saw you earlier today.  He wanted to speak to you right away, but you'd already gone back..."

My head hurts, why can't you just leave this for tomorrow?

"Faramir, are you listening to me?"  Aragorn halted in the hall, looking irritated.

            "Yes."  You can't hear me can you?  He couldn't tell--he felt emotions clearly, but heard no thoughts--Aragorn's mind was strongly shielded in that.  Faramir supposed it was from all the years he'd spent travelling the Wild and on dangerous tasks.  Lucky him.   

They began walking again.  "Good."  He added after a few steps, "Stop doing that, too."

Experimentally, he responded, What?

It was hard to tell if Aragorn heard or not.  "You need to ease up, relax; you're just wearing yourself down."

            Faramir stared at the floor; the concussions of his footfalls sent small throbs of pain through his head.  I thought it might help Éomer, might show him I understood and that I could not be fooled by any of Éowyn's pretenses of happiness...  His voice came out strained and thick, "You know, I do so many things wrong...it's actually become hard to keep track."

            Aragorn halted once more, both looking and feeling furious.  "Do not say that to me."

            "If you wish."  He was so tired, aching.  Faramir tried to gather his energy, he was certain he would need it when they met with Éomer again, but it seemed he had no energy to gather.  I'm exhausted. 

            "I mean it, I don't want to hear anything like that ever again."

            "All right."  Anything for peace, anything for a moment's quiet.  That will soon end...they were nearing her quarters.  Each stride took him closer to the inevitable confrontation and Faramir just felt wearier and wearier.  I will probably pass out before anything gets resolved.  The thought gave him a tiny bit of amusement. 

***

            He did not look half as disturbed now, but that, Éowyn knew, was a lie.  Éomer's bland expression meant he was only more upset, more bothered than before.  He burst in here, he looked badly frightened...Faramir frightened him ...  It was strange to think of her brother being afraid of anything, being assailable-he'd been the one who'd slain all her childhood monsters, the shaggy, slimy things that had hid in the corners and under the bed.  Éomer had been her hero and she supposed he still was.  Suddenly protective, she questioned,

"What did Faramir say?"  What did he do?

            "When?"

To make you so upset my beloved brother.  "In your head, to make you call him a witch."

            "He didn't speak in my head first...he, he told me my thoughts.  Things no one could know."

            "Oh."  Éowyn had leaned back against her brother; with her arm over his shoulders, she could feel how tense he was.  His muscles were tightly bunched and Éomer's words had been clipped.  He doesn't want to tell me.  "Well, what did he say?"

Éomer stirred, his voice quick, "I...do you mind if I don't...?"

            "No, that's fine."  She patted his arm, worried and trying to understand.  He was strangely withdrawn.  Her brother was never like this, so reluctant and holding back with her.  What did Faramir do? 

             "Éowyn?"

            "Yes?"

Éomer spoke slowly, carefully; there was a faltering confusion in his eyes.  "Does he...does he talk to you...like that?  Do you do that?" 

There was no point in lying.  "Yes."

He sat up immediately, frowning.  "How can you stand it?"

            "Easy."  She smiled, straightening on the chair's arm.  Éowyn brushed some of her damp hair off of her shoulder, curling a few light strands around her index finger.  Her ring was on the little table next to her bed, along with the jade bracelet; the dolphin pendant hung securely around her neck, back in its perpetual position.  "I like it."

            "Like it?"  His voice was colored with dismay and repulsion.

            "Well, not the very first time...it bothered me, too.  I was scared, but then, Faramir showed me how he felt and..." She could tell by his eyes that Éomer did not understand.  Éowyn frowned, unable to explain it better.  Eventually, she added, "I could tell he loved me, that he wouldn't deliberately do anything to hurt or scare me."

            "But, how could you stand it?  To be so...vulnerable?  So defenseless?"

She frowned deeper, feeling troubled at his tone.  "I'm not."

Éomer's words came quick, "Yes, you are.  He can see into you, but you can't do anything to stop him or control it...it's horrible, it's..." He grimaced, "an attack, a violation of your mind, your most private...  He can do anything he wants..."

Appalled, she gasped,  "No!"  He made Faramir's gentle and loving mental communication sound akin to rape.  Perhaps he was not so gentle with my brother...alarmed, Éowyn bit her lip; he didn't comprehend what she was trying to say, though he was trying to express his own perceptions.  It was better, at least, then his strange withdrawal a moment before.  "It's not like that at all, Éomer."  Faramir is not like that…do you not see?

His brow furrowed in perplexity as he thought, sitting back further in the chair.  Paying her close attention, he asked, "Then what is it like?  What else could it be like?  I don't understand." 

“Well…it’s not just him reading my thoughts…there’s more…” 

“You read his?”  If possible there was even more shock in his voice; something stirred in her brother’s familiar eyes.  It was almost fear.  But, before she could respond there was a sharp rap at the door.  He tensed and Éowyn frowned at him. 

What did you see Faramir, to make him so upset?  Her heart grew harder.  And why did you have to tell him?  Why did you have to look into him and speak to make him feel like this?  If it were for retaliation for any of her brother's remarks, she would have his head tonight.  Éomer has no defense for such things.  To him it is truly an attack.  Éowyn looked at the door, feeling suddenly very angry and very protective.

***

            He barely resisted leaning against the wall; it looked as comfortable as a bed.  Faramir closed his eyes while Aragorn rapped on the door again, poised to open it.  "You're sure he's in here?"

            "Yes."  He wondered if he was swaying and spread his feet to steady himself.  It was no effort to feel Éomer's location; Éowyn's either, but that was natural, he was used to that-Éomer is something different.  Somehow he'd become tied to her brother, as well as her.  Perhaps because their minds are so linked, they think of each other often and are so close...he wasn't sure he wanted to be bound, even distantly, to Éomer.  What I want is for him and Aragorn to leave so I can go to sleep, even if I have to beg her to let me stay.  His head still ached, rhythmically thumping, his pulse resounding thickly and painfully in his temples.  I feel sick.

            "Come in."  Éowyn's voice sounded displeased and Faramir's eyes snapped open; oh, what did he tell her?  I must have been weary indeed not to think of what Éomer would have said.  She's angry, I can feel it...oh, why, why did I speak?  Why couldn't I leave him well enough alone?  So what if he hates and distrusts me?  Éowyn loves me and that's all that matters, isn't it?  The King opened the door and he made up his mind.  All right, whatever Aragorn wants me to say or do, I shall-anything to speed this, anything to rest.  Faramir stepped into the room fully prepared to surrender his will.  It was not a new sensation.  I've done it often enough, it shall be easy.

***

His sister stood when Aragorn entered.  Her back was straight and her chin was up; Éowyn stared at them and her very posture was a challenge, "What--" that faltered immediately as her eyes shifted to Faramir.  The Steward had come in slow with his movements awkward, almost uncoordinated.  His sister bit her lower lip, shifting back and forth on her feet; she looked back at him and straightened.  But there was less confidence in her question now, "What do you want?"  The King frowned, eyeing her.

"I want to end this tonight.  I would like to come back to Edoras and find peace between these two."  His voice was slightly confused, as though he'd not expected her opposition and did not know how to act.  Éomer gazed at Faramir, feeling horribly unprotected.  It was ridiculous and the emotion angered him--he had Gúthwinë as always, and one good shout would bring his guards.  He was in no danger...no physical danger...he could do anything to my mind, though...  Éowyn's stance had not warmed, even as Aragorn stepped hesitantly forward.  Faramir followed with his movements sluggish, clumsy, it as though a string attached him to the King and was the only thing keeping him on his feet.  Still livid, he thought, Witch.  What have you done to her?  The man looked up; his head had been down; his grey eyes were bloodshot and terribly weary.  Éomer frowned, his unease and anger flipping briefly to concern.  What is wrong with him? 

"Can it not wait?"

Aragorn answered cautiously; he was still eyeing her posture, measuring its combativeness.  "I would prefer not to."

            His sister replied coolly, "I would prefer you did."  Faramir's shoulders slumped; relief radiated off of him.  Éomer gazed up at Éowyn, noting the way she'd moved to stand almost in front of him.  She feels she must protect me...that was unacceptable; he was the one who protected her.  Gathering himself, his will, Éomer spoke quietly,   

            "If he wants, I will do it."  Faramir sighed and walked to one of the wooden chairs.  He sank heavily into it, propping his forehead with his hand.  Aragorn glanced at him, but kept his position in the center of the room, his arms crossed in determination.

            She turned to look at him, but not before her eyes had strayed worriedly to Faramir.  His sister looked divided, "You sure?"

            "Yes."  He had no desire to go anywhere or for sleep.  I still do not understand how you can tolerate what he can do, sister.  I want to know how you changed so. 

            The King said slowly, "All right...we can do this..."

            Éowyn interrupted.  "Here.  You can do it here."

            "Fine."  Aragorn rubbed his hands together, looking momentarily at a loss.  "Let's see...where were we?"

            Éomer leaned back in his chair; it was comfortable and familiar; Éowyn returned to her position on the arm, her back against the side as he muttered, "I just found out Éowyn was wedding a witch."  To his surprise she jammed her elbow hard into his side, right between the ribs.  Wincing, Éomer shifted and gave her a look he hoped showed his compliance.  All right, I won't call him that if you don't wish me to, at least, anywhere that you could hear me. 

            Faramir groaned.  "I'm not..." He stopped abruptly, mumbling, "fine, I am.  Whatever you like." 

            "He's not...it's a gift that runs in his blood, in the Steward's line."  He knew as well, and did not bother to speak.  Aragorn attempted to explain further, but Éomer gazed at the Steward, noting the way his body slumped into the chair, the sweat at his temples, the listless way he stretched his legs and then closed his eyes--Faramir looked horrible.  A gift...it looks like a curse from where I sit.  He is in pain.  I saw how he looked at the funeral, though then I did not grasp why...this gift, as Aragorn calls it, hurts him.  Éomer’s eyes narrowed.  Good.  Then, glancing up at Éowyn, he watched her watch Faramir--her hand was up to her mouth, she chewed her knuckle, fidgeting.  She worries...she would not worry so if she did not love him...yet, how could she stand what he can do?  Éomer was unable to understand that, but he did understand one thing--it would please her for them to talk later.  I, too, am tired...I need time to think.  He trained his eyes upon the Steward.  He looks like he's just going to keel over, anyway.  No fight in him at all now.  The prospect of sitting quietly and talking did not appeal to him.  Tomorrow, I will get Éowyn alone tomorrow and ask her.  I will behave civilly and speak with Aragorn to mollify him, and then...he gazed at Faramir, and then I will talk to you about what you've done to my sister.

Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his voice to its most imperialistic.  "I've changed my mind."  His tone left no room for arguments.

The King tried weakly, "But..."

"No.  Tomorrow."  Éomer stood, not missing the way Faramir's eyes opened to look at him.  Is he reading my thoughts?  The idea made his skin crawl.  Does he know I do this partially for his sake?  It is dishonorable to fight an ailing man, even if you're only quibbling.   

"All right."  Aragorn did not appear very upset; perhaps he, too, was wearied.  "Come on, Faramir."  The Steward rose slowly.  Éowyn did as well, moving a little closer to the three of them.  She looked at Faramir and he gazed back, his expression melancholy and strained but neither spoke.  Then, oddly, to Éomer, Faramir looked relieved.  His step was even slightly quicker as the two men exited.  What was that?  He wondered if they'd spoken.  Right in front of me?  How long have they been doing that?  How can she do that? 

Turning, Éomer managed to smile at her through his disconcertment and confusion.  Who are you, Éowyn?  Who have you become?  Did I sleep and awaken to a woman who looks and sounds like my sister and yet isn't?  "Goodnight, sister, sleep well."

To his surprise she hugged him, her arms tight.  Éowyn gave him a kiss on the cheek; her eyes were sad.  "Goodnight."  He held her a second longer than usual, remembering when he'd had to bend nearly double to embrace her, when he'd said goodnight while leaving her in her little cot, promising to keep his wooden child's sword at hand for protection against bedtime monsters.  He was right; she's not a girl any more...he swallowed a sudden misery.  She has no more use for me.

"I'll see you tomorrow."  Éomer walked out of her rooms and into his own, shutting the door and leaning against it.  What shall I do with myself?  I worry because she might feel purposeless...but will I be any different? 

***

Éowyn sank into the chair, waiting for Faramir to return.  He'd asked her, his inner voice small and meek; she'd said yes, concerned about him.  The immediate and gigantic relief she'd sensed had confirmed her decision.  I am still very angry, but I will save it for tomorrow, he looked so awful...  She folded her legs up, thinking, If those men think they can do this without my presence they are fools.  It concerns me, too.  Éomer will not speak to them, he is difficult.  They do not argue, he does.  She smiled faintly.  Bickering is how he communicates and at times, the only way.  That is in his blood.     

Éowyn looked up as her door was pushed back open.  Faramir stepped inside, closing it quietly.  He stopped in the center of her room and simply looked at her.  What do you want me to say?

What?  Realizing what he meant, she said quickly, "No.  Don't."  Éowyn gazed up at him, his weary eyes and his slumped shoulders.  I cannot be mad when he looks so unwell...  Her heart stirred, wanting to ease the pain and the exhaustion she could sense.  "Tomorrow I will shout at you, tonight," She stood, "Come here."  Faramir came within reach and she took a breath, "Tonight I will let you alone." 

The corners of his mouth moved in a tiny smile, "Thank you." 

First things first...  Éowyn reached up to the clasp on his dark cloak.  "Do not thank me, I will scream at you tomorrow," She paused again to stare at him, her fingers touching the warmed metal, "I mean it, I am very angry."  It was some sort of strangely intertwined star and leaf, raised and gleaming silver.  Very unlike the simple clasps of her people, she had to stand on her tiptoes to see it to know how to unfasten it.  Faramir turned his head just a little, so that his lips came close to brushing her forehead, but he didn't close the gap.  Conscious of his breath, his eyes and the heat that radiated off of his body, she took his cloak away, laying it neatly on the chair.  Dyed an inky sable that gleamed duskily, it was trimmed with white stitching in the ever present, repeating pattern of tree and stars.  Do they ever get tired of that? she wondered.

Éowyn glanced up at his face; it was sober, still weary; Faramir wore nothing upon his head to signify his rank.  "Why don't you have a...?"  She touched her hair. 

"Boromir did."  He looked down at her.  "I have it, but I don't like thinking about wearing it."

"Oh."  Next, she began to loose the leather knot across the lower part of his over-tunic, pausing to lightly brush her fingers across the decoration, which was, naturally, embellished symbols of the white tree and stars.  The knot loosened, she took it off of him and threw the over-tunic into the chair.  The cuirass' breastplate and backplate took her a moment with her fingers roaming to find out just how it was connected, as well as did the fawld hanging down over and across his hips.  Éowyn unbuckled them, along with the rounded steel pauldrons over his shoulders.  Under and beside the coal-black leather, the steel armor was radiantly lustrous, glimmering fitfully along its curves in the candlelight.  Niht-helm ond gullisc, she thought and Faramir's mind gently questioned.

What does that mean?

Shade of the night and...the other is hard...essence of silver is closest to the Common Tongue.  He was watching her hands.  Éowyn licked her lips, aware of his eyes upon her.  After a long moment, he asked,

"What did Éomer say?"

"He told me you spoke in his head, read his thoughts and then told him."  She felt her anger engulf her anew.  "You shouldn't have done that to him--he's not used to such things."  Her fingers moved quickly up, taking off the cuirass that covered his chest and back and Faramir lifted his arms, moving for her.  Along with his fawld, tasset and pauldrons, Éowyn lowered the surprisingly light thing to the chair's seat and began to undo his bracers.  He turned his arms outward a little, giving her access to the laces to better free him.  The arm bracers were sable, too, with the drawn-out, slender white tree on them; they were slightly worn where the bowstring might contact.  She wondered if he had worn them while hunting or into a skirmish.  It was hard to imagine how Faramir would fight; she thought he would be patient, allowing his opponents to come to him; the opposite of Éomer's style. 

Dropping his bracers, she paused, gazing up into his grey eyes.  They stood very near, only inches from each other.  Any other day she might have taken her time and enjoyed this task, using her closeness to tease, but at the moment Éowyn was too embittered just remembering the expression on her brother's face.  Looking back down, she muttered, "It won't help at all.  You've just made things worse."

Faramir raised his hands to aid her with his haubergen, but she pushed them down, gentle as possible.  His chest expanded under her stroking fingertips as he sighed, "Maybe, maybe not." 

Sliding her fingers over the warm metal links, feeling its slight difference from the mail her own people wore, she looked up, growing irritated.  "What do you mean, maybe?"  Her voice grew tighter.  "We'll see tomorrow."  There was a tiny flicker of hope?  What does he hope? 

Faramir answered, He did not feel so upset when he left.  His tone was placating, "But I suppose we will see."  Sliding her hands to his sides, Éowyn began to unlace the haubergen.  The mail was warm from his body; she finished as quick as possible, dropping it to the chair; having seen his rooms in Minas Tirith, she did not think it would bother him that nothing was folded or ordered.  It jingled softly, the links shining in a bright pile next to his other armor.

            "You are too tall.  This would be far easier if you had more hobbit in you."  The padded doublet was quickly removed and he gave her another wee smile, coming closer to make it simpler as she unbuttoned his dark, finely embroidered over shirt. 

"I can do the rest, I'm not so tired.  You don't have to."

"You'll take too long at it.  I don't want to watch you struggle and I've already started."  He stood motionless as she lowered it over his shoulders and down his arms; Éowyn dropped the shirt, again conscious that they were very close.  There were small clinks as it settled, shifting the mail; she undid his belt, trying not to think at all.  Leaving it undone for the moment, she kicked away the pile of clothes at her feet, giving herself room.

Faramir's breath tickled her brow as he asked quietly, sounding almost amused, "How far are you going with this?" 

I am still angry, she reminded herself.  Her tone was brusque.  "Not far as you'd like, I'm sure." 

He laughed just as quietly.  Don't overestimate me...I'm too tired to act like a stallion.

Despite her irritation, she smiled as she whipped his belt off and added it to the small mound.  Who ever called you a stallion?  Faramir hemmed and hawed with a weary sort of playfulness and she smiled again, gesturing, "Sit."  He did so, sinking heavily into the other soft chair; the first was covered in his things.  Falling to her knees, Éowyn attacked his boots, unlacing them.  Faramir leaned his head back, when she glanced up his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed and he rubbed his forehead, covering his eyes.  He looked strangely vulnerable sitting that way, with his throat exposed, arms lax; he looked naked and defenseless.  Quickly bending back down, she concentrated on undoing enough of the laces to free him.  She pulled his boots and socks off, wrinkling her nose and dropping them.  Faramir made a small chuffing noise of amusement.  "All right, get up."  Éowyn surveyed her work as he laboriously stood-she'd stripped him down to only a thin linen shirt and his breeches.  And in record time, too.

You have a record?

I do now.

This made them both smile a little.  He looked down at himself, then back to her.  His expression was gentle, apologetically pleading.  "Ic lufie ge."

"Ic eom giet hatheart."  She cupped his face sadly, feeling stubble prickle her palms.  "Ac, Ic geaf bæc eower lufu in ful."  Éowyn smiled, "Æfre, min deore."

Faramir leaned into her hands, murmuring as he turned to kiss one, "Ic dyde ná hicgan hit," He paused, not knowing all the words to adequately express himself and finished hesitantly, "He sewe hit in swilc... ac yfel weg..."

Éowyn sighed and hugged him, arms pressing to his sides, her cheek to his shoulder.  "Hit wille beon eall riht." 

"Ge eart cuðlic?"

"Gea."  Faramir still looked so weary; Éowyn kissed him lightly, holding his body.  I will make it so.  Come.  Taking his hand, and lifting the candelabra in her other, she led him into her bedroom.  Pointing at the bed, she ordered, "Get in."

Faramir yawned, turning back her blankets and sitting leadenly.  Is there anything I can help you with?

Despite herself, Éowyn smiled as she untied her robe and then folded it and placed it neatly into one of her drawers.  Clad only in her nightgown, she moved to the dresser, running her fingers through her hair.  It wasn't brushed as well as she should have, there would be horrible snarls in the morning, but she wasn't bothering.  I thought you were too tired.

Well, I thought I might return the favor...

No, get in and go to sleep.  He obeyed, sighing with deep satisfaction as he lay down on the feather bed, only to look at her.  Faramir blinked slowly, wiggling himself deep into the blankets and resting his head on a pillow. 

What about you?  Aren't you coming?

She stared at herself in the mirror wondering what she would do the next morning.  "In a moment."  Éowyn rested her hands on the dresser, only to jump a little--there was a crack in the mirror, down by the base as it set into her dresser top.  Lifting her fingers, she touched it.  The crack was thin and short, just superficial, barely noticeable.  But...  It hadn't been there before, she was sure of it.  It must have happened this morning...she remembered him, his mouth hot, and his body solid and hard with the armor as he'd pinned her willingly.  She'd laughed at his impudence, reveling in it and his strength, his feverish hunger.  Éowyn touched the slim fracture in the otherwise perfect mirror, recalling him eagerly driving himself against her and rattling her dresser hard into the wall.  Glancing back at Faramir, she thought with a chill, bad luck...that means bad luck.  His eyes were already shut; she sensed he was close to sleep, drifting down into unconsciousness even as she looked at him.  I am silly, it is just a crack, it means nothing...  Uneasy, Éowyn turned away, moving to her bed and blowing out the candles as she did so. 

Sliding beneath the blankets, she was surprised when he moved, wrapping his arms around her.  "I thought you were almost asleep."

"Not without you."  Faramir nuzzled her neck, giving her a warm kiss there.  Facing him, Éowyn felt his front expand as he took a deep breath; "You smell good."

"The soap, it's scented with some kind of flower.  I don't know which."  He was pressed to her, cuddling tight and needy.  She touched his brow, smoothing his hair, letting her fingers run down the side of his face; he sighed again and she felt his whole body relax. 

"I'm sorry."  His voice was hardly more than a whisper in the dark.

It was mesmerizing to trace his features over and over, from smooth skin to stubble with Faramir's lips parting as she moved across his chin, lightly capturing her fingers between his teeth.  Éowyn asked, dreading his answer, "What for?" 

He licked them for a second, his tongue hot and wet, making her tingle, and then released her, kissing her fingertips as she tapped his mouth in chastisement.  His hands were warm on her lower back.  Faramir sounded sleepily remorseful; "I should be comforting you this night."

She wasn't that tired anymore.  "It's all right.  Don't be sorry."

His voice was slow, confused, "I tried; why did you push me away?"

"I don't know."  Éowyn scooted closer, folding the blankets over them and pulling Faramir nearer.  He snuggled readily into her arms, his face to her neck, his breath on her skin.  "Shh.  You're tired, go to sleep."  Pressing a kiss to his hair, she closed her eyes.

A moment passed and he requested, "Sing?" 

She opened them again, staring into the darkened bedroom.  "What?" 

"Something soft...and nice."  A smile in her words, she asked,

"You don't want me to finish...?"

Faramir shook his head.  "Not tonight."  There was a hint of a smile in his words now, "Sometime, though." 

Éowyn thought.  "All right."  She licked her lips, making her voice very low and soothing,

"Ligeð orsorg, min frendscipe."  Éowyn stroked his hair.  "Se beadu is gedon," For a second her memory intruded--The last man I undressed was Théodred...he was dead and later I sang over his mound.  That song began much like this one--she pushed it away.  "Ond ná fracoð gemætan wille dræf ge," She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to stop her sadness, "hwil Ic eom her." 

            He knew there was more and made an expectant noise.

            "Ge eart min heorte," Drowsy, Faramir kissed her just above her breasts; his lips were soft and warm.  "min frendscipe."  She finished softly, "Ligeð orsorg, Ic eom her."

            "...mm..."  It was no more than a breath and he was asleep then, his chest rising and falling against hers, his arms still wrapped around her torso. 

            "God niht, min frendscipe."  Resting her cheek on his hair, she breathed in and out, feeling herself relaxing.  Sleep crept slowly, feet first, sliding upward; warm with Faramir, she closed her eyes.  Ná fracoð gemætan wille dræf...

            She'd climbed stairs, up and up, curving slowly, but now Éowyn stood still with Faramir's hands held over her eyes; his voice was low in her ear, excited.  "Keep them shut.  No peeking, I mean it."

            The air smelled like salt, sharp in her nose.  A cool dawn wind was blowing and it whipped her hair.  She turned her head, blindly asking, "How much farther?"

            "Four steps."  His front bumped gently against her backside as he walked her forward.  Éowyn lagged on purpose, feeling his body.  There was a distant, rhythmic booming, almost roaring noise--it was unlike anything she'd ever heard.  Faramir breathed into her ear,

            "Wait until you see."  His mouth hovered and she paused as he kissed her neck and shoulder hungrily.  Her hands touched his arms, then went back to his sides, caressing as much as she could reach as she smiled. 

            "When?"  There were bird cries, raucous and piercing and the swift flap of wings.  Her feet moved slowly, hesitating over the unknown ground; he was right behind her, keeping close.  One of his hands fell to her waist, his fingertips spiraling in little patterns.  Her stomach fluttered under the touch, body responding immediately when he moved it in wider circles.

            "Here...here, feel the wall?"  Éowyn put out her hands; they touched hard, sun-warmed stone.  She had the impression of being very high up in an open space and leaned backwards against his chest for support. 

            "Yes."

            "Eyes still closed?"

            She smiled, "Yes."

            "Good."  Again Faramir's mouth went to her neck, kissing hotly.  

Éowyn laughed, shrugging him away.  "Stop teasing, I want to see."

"All right."  He breathed in, his chest pressed against her back.  Faramir moved his hand, getting ready and then he took it away, adding it to her waist as well.  He held her fast.  "All right, open your eyes."

For a second she didn't, keeping them tightly closed, relishing her anticipation.  Éowyn bit her lip, smiling and then opened her eyes to the wall in her bedroom. 

She frowned, feeling oddly wistful; shifting, she felt Faramir's hands around her waist and his chin against her shoulder, much how he'd been in her dream.  Was it only a dream, then?  Éowyn frowned again; she would be deeply disappointed if it was.  That was the sea...she didn't know how she was certain, but she was and completely.  He was showing me the sea. 

             Sometime in the night she'd turned over to face away from him.  Now she turned back, peering over his neck, looking out her window.  Early, pre-dawn light shone through it.  It is too early; I won't wake him yet. 

            Faramir appeared deeply asleep.  Éowyn snuggled down into his arms, wrapping one of hers around him, curling the other to place her palm on his chest.  Under it, his heart beat slow and steady.  He looks so peaceful...  She yawned, still sleepy and closed her eyes again.  Not wanting to wake him yet, she lay quiet.  When he wakes, we have to see Aragorn and Éomer and I have to be angry with him...I have to choose a side.  Her brow creased.  Just a little longer, just lie here a little bit longer, he's so warm and I'm so comfortable...

***

Something was wrong.  Disturbance flickered just outside his consciousness; waking him.  Faramir opened his eyes; Éowyn's hair tickled his chin--whatever the turmoil was, it wasn't from her; she was still asleep and peacefully.  What is that?  No...who?  As quickly as it had come, the disturbance faded.  I suppose it was someone passing by...

            It's late...  He could tell by the length of the shadows on her wall that they'd slept late into the morning.  How am I going to get out of here?  Faramir sighed, rolling over onto his back and stretching his arms over his head; he yawned wide, thinking.  Éowyn's bed was soft and enticing, but it would have to be now if he hoped to remain undetected.  Somehow, I think it would only hinder the relationship between Éomer and I ...he smiled in amusement.  Not that there is much to hinder...though, maybe...  Trying to be optimistic, Faramir closed his eyes, rubbing them and stretching his legs.  He felt well again with no headache or no horrible weariness.  Turning his head, he gazed at Éowyn's sleeping face.  I must go.

            She opened her eyes when he kissed her forehead; they peeped at him as he climbed out of her bed, blue half-moons following his movements around to her side.  I'll have to leave my clothes here...all right?  It would be more suspicious if he walked down the halls still clothed in his formal armor than if his shirt and breeches were wrinkled a bit.  My love...?  He was unsure of her mood; Éowyn lifted up, rubbing her eyes, her nightgown baring one shoulder.  Her hand reached for him and Faramir came closer.  What?  .  

            You have one minute.  She grabbed onto his shirt, looking serious.

            Until what?

             She smiled a little.  Until I’m awake enough to get angry.

            Oh.  Faramir sat on the side of the bed and leaned down.  Éowyn pulled him yet closer, and moved up so that he was right next to her.

            Her lips were still curved into a small smile.  Better hurry.

            Laughing softly, he did what he'd wanted to last night while she'd been undressing him and feathered slow kisses on her cheek and then her mouth, tracing the side of her pretty face with his fingertips.  It was the same thing she did with him and he could tell Éowyn liked it, liked the intimacy of the little touches.  She even kissed him back some; hmm, she can't be too mad at me...

Faramir ducked to kiss her soft-skinned neck, feeling her shiver and her hand touch the back of his head to keep his mouth there for an extra second.  She still smelled like flowers.  Tempted by her bared shoulder, he dawdled there before turning to her lips again, feeling her forearm wrap around his neck as he touched his mind to hers, curious to see her temperament this morning.  Éowyn blinked, surprised and then relaxed to allow it.  Her fingers stroked his jaw, her short nails gently rubbing as his lips pressed hers, and he asked her, are you still...?

            You're not tired anymore, good and bad, too, because now I can shout...  She was angry still, but really she'd forgiven him already for upsetting Éomer.  As long as you never do it again...I mean it...it bothered him...he can't fight that, can't maneuver around it...he felt trapped, helpless.  If you want to fight, use words or, if you must, hit him.  Not your mind.  Suddenly she was much fiercer and her blue eyes flashed at him while her hand tangled firmly in his hair, holding him away from kissing her, holding his gaze.  Never, Faramir, never.  Promise me.

            All right, I promise.  Soothingly, he answered, What I saw in him...I almost knew it would, but he...it will bring him comfort once he gets used to the idea. 

            How?  You unsettled him so much...  She was doubtful with a steadily growing ire as she remembered.

            Faramir hesitated, sitting back; he was reluctant to discuss Éomer's thoughts.  Some had been deeply buried things, all but unspoken even in the man's own mind; he didn't think he'd shared them with Éowyn last night. 

Carefully, he replied, He thinks you'll be unhappy in Gondor and that I won't know, but I will.  See?  Now he knows.  Won't that comfort him?

              Her response was skeptical. I suppose...

            Kissing her mouth one last time, he rose from the bed.  I'll see you soon?

            Éowyn nodded, putting her feet on the floor and wriggling her toes.  She glanced over at her dresser and her expression became strangely gloomy but he didn't have time to question. Yes.

            Faramir walked out of her bedroom and sat in the chair, putting his boots back on.  She did not emerge until he was done and standing; she sat in the soft chair with her bare feet and legs curled under her.  It appeared his minute of grace was past, because Éowyn didn't say or do anything, she just watched him.  Feeling queer under her silent scrutiny, he left his clothes on her chair.  Running his hands through his hair, trying to smooth it, he halted in front of the door, mentally scanning the halls for any people.  There was no one within range, so he paused before he slipped out, gazing back at her and attempting a weak jest.  You won't shout too loud? 

            Éowyn did not reply; she wasn't looking at him anymore; her face was bent and he was speaking to the top of her golden head.  Frowning, he left.  Moving quickly through the deserted halls, he was soon back in his own quarters.  Splashing water on his face, Faramir began to change into his usual uniform.  It felt light and comfortable after all the metal of yesterday.  The tunic was paled from the Ithilien sun, more of a deep brown than a sable; he felt suddenly homesick picturing the cool, wooded slopes. 

            Rohan was too wide and far too flat; Faramir was used to being confined by the Anduin and the mountains.  He remembered the ride, watching the land spread out, and the northern and western horizon becoming limitless, unbroken grass.  The only boundary had been to the south, the long line of the White Mountains.  The entire experience had been unsettling.  I can see miles around from Edoras, it is favorable from a battle perspective and yet, I feel more exposed; there is no cover in Rohan, they must stand and fight or out flee their pursuers.  For a second Faramir thought about that, and it seemed to give him a new outlook, but then his mind shifted. 

Perhaps it will unsettle Éowyn to be so enclosed...but there was naught he could do.  I cannot move rivers or mountains.

  Faramir had just finished dressing when there was a pounding at his door.  The mind on the other side was vaguely familiar.  He opened it; a young, red-haired man stood there, his face a mix of puzzlement and glee.  I've seen him before...who is...?

  The Rohirrim pushed rudely past him.  "Where were you, what's wrong with you?  Don't you know you're supposed to leave a lady's bed before dawn?"  

Alarmed, he asked, "Excuse me?"

"This morning.  I came by twice looking for you."  He looked at Faramir's bow and sword interestedly, both still lying on the table, but he did not touch them.  "It's almost noon now.  I swear, you must be new at this."  Grinning good-naturedly, he added, "You're late, Faramir and for your very first day.  Half-day, but still, that's not going to make a good impression."

"I was asleep."  Staring at him, Faramir gestured to his bedroom door.  "Here."

The man grinned wider.  "Of course you were and that's why, ever since you got here, King Éomer has walking around looking like he had a storm cloud brewing over his head."  He eyed him and chuckled, "You don't have to lie, we all know.  Though, I'll say you definitely have courage in carrying on as you have with our Lord's sister."  He shuddered, "I wouldn't.  Not in a land where every man knows how to wield the gelding knife...  You'll be lucky to leave intact if you keep this up, Faramir.  They look up to her and you're messing with their image of our pure, chaste Lady."

Faramir frowned, asserting again as he tried to make sense of all the words being thrown at him.  "I was asleep.  Here."  Who is this man?

"Right."  Shaking his head, the Rohirrim sighed, "Asleep, you say?  You do look rested.  Well, I wouldn't have slept."  He snorted, "Not in Lady Éowyn's bed."  Faramir was treated to a wink that immediately irritated him.  "She was almost mine, you know.  Too bad you came, she liked me, I would have had her for sure."

What is he talking about?  "I wasn't-"

"Oh, come on."  The man sighed deeply, "We're not idiots."  He laughed again and looked down at the bow in curiosity.  "This is nice workmanship.  What is its name?"

"Tarwatirno."

The identification earned him an incredulously grimaced, "What kind of name is that?  For just a second Faramir smiled.  Boromir had given him much the same reaction.  The man went on, "Seriously, that's a horrid name for such a well-made bow; I'm surprised it hasn't forsaken you."

He sighed.  "In elvish it means, roughly, "keeper of garden"."

"Weardæfwudu sounds better."

 Faramir had had enough.  "Who are you?"

The Rohirrim's grin resurfaced.  "Gaer...don't you remember?"

He did, after a moment.  "Yes.  I do now."  Faramir smiled remembering the night in the tavern, "It's a bit of a blur."

"Aye."  Gaer chuckled cheerfully and then sighed.  "Well, we need to go."  He frowned for the first time, "Are you wearing that?"

Oddly self-conscious, Faramir touched his chest.  "What else would I wear?"

"You know--" Gaer tapped his own tunic and then shrugged, "Oh, well, you'll get one later.  Come on."

Faramir followed him out the door, Gaer turning to ask with an easy interest; there seemed to be none of the scorn or distaste that some of the other Rohirrim nursed in his presence.  I wonder why, since he proclaims his liking for Éowyn so much...  "Are you better with the bow or the blade, Faramir?"

"The bow."  Pleasure filled him at the faint possibility that he might get to shoot. 

"Good!"  The Rohirrim lit up and at his questioning gaze, added with a self-depreciating smile.  "I can't shoot for anything, really, it's disgraceful.  In...that little field of yours outside Mundburg?"

The Pelennor?  Faramir was amused as he nodded to show he understood.  "That little field..."?  I've never heard it called that before.

"I swear-" Gaer shook his head, "dropping arrows left and right, couldn't even hit the mûmakil if I tried." 

"What are we doing?"  I thought I was meeting Éomer and Aragorn...but I guess not.  He was not too upset since arguing with Éomer was not something he looked forward to.

"First, getting you something to eat.  I'm sure you're hungry...unless you've already eaten this morning and that's why you were late," Gaer grinned and Faramir was confused; though he got the impression of suggestive mischief.  "And making sure your horse is up, and we're showing some of the new lads how to handle their weapons."  They moved through the halls.  "Not a hard day.  Tomorrow we get salt and that's horrible when it's hot."

            Get salt?  Curious, he followed Gaer.

***

Aragorn looked very displeased.  Éomer sighed, "I forgot."  And I'm glad.  Glad, damn you.  Glad, glad, glad.  "I haven't seen Éowyn yet, anyway."

The King folded his arms.  "Well, you're not getting out of this, we'll just have to do it tonight.  With or without her."

"Fine."  The very thought of being in the same room with Faramir was disconcerting; he shrugged it off.  Act like a man, dammit.

They were standing outside the larger corral behind the barns; Aragorn was looking at the two young stallions Éomer had finally narrowed his decision down to.  "So, what is he doing today?"

"Teaching."

The question was accompanied with a raised eyebrow of suspicion.  "What?"

"Archery.  He's supposed to be a skilled archer...it's not difficult, he doesn't need to know too much of our tongue--he can point or something."  The King made a face and Éomer glanced at him, thinking I could have put him right out with men who might or might not attempt to knock the innards out of him.  No, teaching the new lads something about using a bow is better for now.  Witch or not, Éowyn would be highly upset if he came back broken into pieces.  "He's only doing that for today, to give him a feel for things."

Aragorn snorted, sounding more amused now than skeptical.  "I suppose so."  In a swift movement, he climbed the rails to sit on top.  "Which one?"

Éomer stayed on the ground.  "I don't know.  Which do you like?  Éowyn loves the bay."  The two stallions eyed the King; they snorted, raising and lowering their fine heads, tossing their forelocks to better see.  The regal blood bay approached slowly while the other stud, a tall black roan, stood where he was. 

"He's nice...friendly, too."  Aragorn extended a hand for the red stallion to sniff. 

"The other's got better blood in him."  Éomer gazed through the rails.  I can't choose.  The black roan is rarer in color, but the blood bay is the better horse.  He sighed.

Aragorn was neutral, lightly rubbing the stud's nose.  "Hmm."

"The roan will go with Master Thohl if I pick the bay; he'll be one of our new herd stallions."

"Best take the bay then."

"I know."  Éomer whistled; the black roan pricked his ears; he was posing in the mid-morning light, standing squarely with his coal black tail still and his thick neck arched.  He was beautiful, a true roan with all his points: head, ears, lower legs, mane and tail a deep, gleaming sable.  The jet-black color lightened towards his hindquarters, turning a slate grey along his withers to ivory flanks that shone against his black, slapping tail.  Between his eyes was a small star.  It stood out, white against his dark head.  He is magnificent...it would be a shame to keep him here...  He thought of a field full of roan colts, black roans or even full blacks if the blood were right.  Fine, I'll take the bay, he is not as comely, but he will be easier to train.  The roan still stood aloof, his hazel eyes watchful, his ears never stopping, constantly flicking back and forth.  Éomer glanced up, "You're right."

"Good choice."  The blood bay stallion had come close; his head was bent at an angle while Aragorn's fingers scratched behind his ears.  He was beautiful, too, glowing with a rich, crimson sheen as well as having black points.  "What's his name?"

            "Which one?"

"Both."

"The roan is Wlite."  Beauty in our tongue...and well earned.  "The bay is Blâcfÿren.”  The name meant shining and fire.  Éomer watched the sun glow off of the blood bay's coat; it was a brilliant coppery color.  He, too, is aptly named. 

"Greetings, Blâcfÿren."  It was in such a flowery tone, so similar to the one his sister used when pacifying a skittish mount or simply babying one that Éomer burst out in laughter.  Aragorn frowned at him, "What?"

"Nothing."  He shook his head, still grinning. 

"Éomer!"  It was Éowyn, herself; coming towards them and looking delighted.  She wore men's clothes; he frowned and thought the shirt could be buttoned up a bit more.  It is hot, but still...  In her hands was a sheathed sword, the leather scabbard still new.  Everything about her appeared normal, just his sister, happy as always with a new blade.  But that is an illusion.  Uneasy, Éomer frowned.

Aragorn swung his legs back over the fence, leaping to the ground.  "She got a new sword?"

"Aye."  It was about time, but the smiths had been busy all summer replacing all the blades and armor, both for horse and man, that had been broken or lost in battle to worry about Éowyn.  Who won't be using hers for anything other than sparring ever again, he added fiercely to himself.

Aragorn muttered quietly as she neared them, "Looks like it cheered her right up."

Éomer shrugged, replying just as quietly.  "Why wouldn't it?"

The King glanced sideways at him and grinned; "Faramir's going to have a lot of weapons lying about.”  And just like that Éomer's good mood, already tremulous, evaporated.  Why'd you have to bring him up?  Aragorn frowned morosely, adding under his breath, "I wish Arwen were so easy to please."

The blade flashed bright in the sun as she unsheathed it.  He touched Gúthwinë's hilt as she approached, leaning back against the corral in a façade of good-natured impertinence.  The bay's nose touched his shoulder blade, sniffing and he shrugged gently to discourage it from biting.  Éowyn held up her sword in a merry challenge; it gleamed blindingly as he asked,  "You want to try it out, then, sister?  See if it can hold its own to my Gúthwinë?"

"Yes.”  She nodded eagerly and glanced back at the bright, new blade, "I can't name it until I know something about it."

Nudging the King, he began walking with her down to the training area.  "Come on, you can take the winner."  Isn't this better than talking with Faramir?

"Really?"  Aragorn grinned, shaking his head slowly, "I don't know whom to back-she's prettier, but you're still so handsome."

Éomer rolled his eyes.  Idiot.

***

            Faramir became aware of their scrutiny almost immediately.  Gaer led him through the streets to their destination; he didn't seem to notice anything.  In the kitchens, where he'd grabbed a few quick things to eat, apple, bread, and cheese, no one had given them a second look.  But, now, outside and walking through the streets of Edoras, soldiers were everywhere.  They stared at him and then bent to their neighbors, laughing or speaking.  Faramir kept to Gaer's heels, feeling uncomfortable.  Sensing a growing boldness in the crowd, he glanced around.  Some of the soldiers had closed in, gradually flanking them.  As he slowed to watch they came closer.  Wary, Faramir scanned the general emotion--it was cool amusement coupled with dislike and anticipation.  What are they doing? 

He was getting hemmed in, slowly but surely.  Incredulous, he wondered again, what are they doing?  What do they want?  A dog darted across his path, so fast he barely saw it, but it broke Faramir's stride and suddenly there was a wall of stern-faced men between him and Gaer's back.  Oh, damn them, what now?  None spoke or moved they simply stared at him.  He didn't want to shout for help, that would be seen a weakness, most definitely...  Gaer didn't pause, simply making his way, as though Faramir were still following.  Is he abandoning me to this or does he not notice? 

The man that had stepped directly into his path, glanced around mockingly, "Leofe broðra, hit is se lytle Bregu," He smiled, tall and broad with heavily muscled forearms and a thick flaxen beard, "Ond hit behêold gelic he losige ûre Ides…” He chuckled, “ond her hrægl tó head beæftan..."

Faramir understood just enough of the words, coupled with the scornful tone, to stiffen in a sudden rage.  Relax, stop it, that will only make things worse... 

The man grinned at him, noting his darkened expression, "Ge eart a lang foldweg hwæt eower eard."

Most of the foreign words blurred together in the thick accent and quick speech.  For the first time Faramir realized just how slowly and clearly Éowyn and even Éomer spoke when they used Rohirric to talk to him.  What do I say?  I barely understood any of that and what I did was terribly insulting.  Behind the men in front of him, he noticed Gaer had halted and turned, but did not approach.  His expression was slightly concerned and slightly puzzled.  Self-conscious of his own imperfect accent, he began, "Hwa do ge...?"  Faramir did not get to finish before he was cut off by a wave of laughter.

"Hlyston tó him!"  The laughter dried up as the big man added, a glint in his eyes, "He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!"  Gaer had come closer now, slipping through the crowd to stand relatively near.  He was still puzzled looking, but now even more so and, Faramir sensed, growing anxious.  Whatever I am doing or not doing, it is the wrong reaction...so, what is right?  He had no idea.

 "Âcwið eft!"  They were making fun of him that was obvious.  Faramir gritted his teeth, refusing to react. 

The Rohirrim man grinned, cracking gnarled knuckles as he asked, "Hwa?  Dyde cossian ûre Ides wêrig eower tunge?”  The tone had changed from mocking to distinctly threatening.  Anticipation grew heavy in the air; they expected something from him.  I am afraid they want me to fight...  Mentally scrabbling through his limited vocabulary, he tried to find something to say.  Dammit, dammit, what do I do?  This was a situation that had never occurred before and Faramir was beginning to realize why soldiers had never bothered him--I was a noble, besides, Boromir would not have tolerated it and then I was their Captain...

A man shouted from the back, "Âcwið níðing!"  It was repeated throughout the crowd; they were taunting him now, trying to force a reaction.

I am not a coward.  Before Faramir could open his mouth, Gaer pushed through the men.  He sounded annoyed and not at all friendly,

"Faramir!  What are you doing?"  He grabbed his arm; confused, Faramir allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd.  Irritably, Gaer snapped, "Are all you men of Gondor this slow?"

Perplexed, he muttered, "No."

"No wonder we have to ride all the way to Mundburg and rescue you all the time, come on, there are things to do.  We don't get to loll about in the southern sun here."  Gaer marched him swiftly away.  Faramir glanced back; the soldiers had vanished.  What was that about?

***

Gúthwinë rang one last time, sounding resigned as Éomer stumbled back and his feet crossed into the grass.  "Damn!"  He swore to mask his pride; I don’t know who taught her that, Théodred or I, but it was well worth it.  Éowyn stopped, grinning as she smoothed back wild strands of her hair.  Aragorn, who had been sprawled on the ground and chewing on a grass stem, smirked as he climbed to his feet. 

"And I was looking forward to sparring with you, crossing Andúril with Gúthwinë."

His sister rolled her eyes, "That pretty thing?  Phft!”  She swung her new sword, listening to it sing.  The blade shone; its sound was sweet and lighthearted with triumph.

Éomer glowered, still feeling proud, and muttered,  “I let her win."  Everything is fine, he reassured himself.  She is her, just like always.  Still, in his very heart there was unease.

"Course you did," Aragorn stretched his arms out, “don’t want to discourage a new blade, got to build its confidence.”

“Come on, come on.”  Éowyn sighed, “Hurry, will you?”

He rolled his shoulders, pausing to ask,  “Can I loosen up for a second?”

Her tone was arrogant, “Why bother?  You’re going to lose.”

“Are you listening to that, Éomer?  This woman thinks she can beat me.”  Aragorn was trying to keep an irritated expression and failing.  “What am I using?”

Waving her hand at his side, Éowyn answered, “That pretty elf blade.”

“Pretty?”  He snorted; the King’s fingers grasped Andúril’s hilt, almost caressing.  “I can’t use this.”

She rolled her eyes, still swinging her sword.  For the first time Éomer noticed the slender, light green jade bracelet on her wrist.  He remembered it after a second; the dolphin hung round her neck, too.  Both were pleasing enough adornments; he had to admit, simple and going well even with her coarse, brown men’s shirt and baggy, colorless trousers.  They reminded him she was a woman; at times like this Éomer often forgot the fact unless admiringly staring soldiers… or Faramir… reminded him.  The bracelet moved up and down a little with each motion of her arm,  “Why not?”

“Because.”  Aragorn sounded disdainful, arching an eyebrow.  “It will be no contest.”  Bemused and eased by their bickering, Éomer left the circle of dirt, sitting on the cool grass.  The midday sun was high, partially obscured by clouds.  He rubbed Gúthwinë with the end of his shirt, cleaning off some of the dust that had blown onto it as he and his sister had sparred.  She was good, quick and lithe; her smaller stature made her an ideal opponent.  Much like battling a particularly fierce little orc…not that I would ever, ever say so.  He valued his skin. 

            “Are you listening to that, brother?”  Éowyn smirked, tossing her braided hair off her shoulder, “This man thinks he can beat me.”

            “Cut his fool head off, then.”  The voice surprised them all.  Arwen had come down for some reason.  Her dress was blue with white; the skirts swished in the grass; she looked lovely, Éomer thought, but strange to be so finely attired out here in the dusty, dirty practice area.  Aragorn looked at her hopefully, as though she might have been searching for him.  You don’t have a chance; Éomer smiled in amusement.  I don’t know why you don’t just grovel at her feet already and beg for forgiveness and get it over with.  The woman’s face was cool, detached; her tone had been as well.  For a second his sister appeared self-conscious, her hand touching the grubby, stained men’s shirt she wore, but then Éowyn smiled cheerfully and swung her sword again, the sun glinting off of it. 

“Can do.”

***

                “What’s wrong with you?”  Gaer finally spoke to him as they exited Edoras, walking down the road.  There were buildings nearby with small fields ending with targets, tiny fenced enclosures for men on horses to practice and numerous sheds containing reserves of weapons suitable for mock-battles.  Faramir vaguely remembered Éomer’s memory.  He turned, looking over his shoulder—the view of the walls of Edoras was much the same.  Interesting.

            Since Gaer was talking again, he asked, “What did they want?”

            His question was ignored.  “Why didn’t you take a swing at him or something?  You could have at least said something to defend yourself.”  The Rohirrim sounded exasperated and bewildered.  “Don’t you know anything?  Didn’t Halorl teach you anything?”

            Faramir smiled.  “Apparently not.”

            “It’s only going to get harder for you…you should have knocked him down, that—”

            “Would have made things worse…?”  He trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

            “No,” Gaer spoke as though to a child, “that would have ended it.”

            “How?”  He didn’t understand.  How could hitting him end anything?  Gandalf had always taught him the opposite and every book he’d read on battle had reinforced the lesson.  Violence only initiates more violence; it does not stop unless one is completely, utterly defeated.  Battle is the last resort.

            “It…it just would have.”  Sighing, Gaer pointed ahead.  “Come on, they are waiting.  I’ll try to explain later.”

            Reaching one of the farther sheds, Faramir stared at the line of young men; they were gawky teens, new to the life of a soldier and looked uncomfortable in their Rohirric uniforms.  They stared back, obviously curious about him as Gaer grinned, friendly again, “His nama is Faramir ond he is æf Mundburg.  He wille ge-læran ge se boga.”

            The lads chorused, “Wes ðu hal, Faramir Hlaford.”  He couldn’t help a wide smile.  They, at least, do not despise me.

            “Enjoy yourself.”  Gaer clasped his shoulder and made to leave.  “I’ll be down that way, showing some more lads how to wield a sword.  I’ll come get you when we’re done for the day.”  He grinned and nodded to a flame-haired boy on the end.  “That’s my cousin, Caraed.”  Lowering his voice, he added, “If he can’t shoot either, go easy on him.  It runs in the blood.”

            Faramir smiled again.  It faded quickly, though, as Gaer turned away.  He hissed, “Wait, what do I do?” 

            “There are the bows and the arrows,” He pointed to the nearest shed, then a long row of battered, stuffed pads mounted upon poles.  “And there are the targets.  You show them how to bring them all together.”  Gaer grinned, “Easy.”  He gave Faramir a nod and then moved off. 

            Feeling strangely nervous, he turned to the expectant lads.  Their eyes were curious; they stood straight, at attention, waiting for his command.  There was no malice in them.  Easy.  Why, oh, why could Boromir not be here to help…?  He’d always been the student, never the teacher.  Do they even understand the Common Tongue?  Faramir shifted his weight from foot to foot, hesitating.  Dammit, Gaer; he glared murderously at the man’s back.  All right…  Taking a deep breath he began haltingly, “Do you understand me?”  Some nodded obediently while others only looked puzzled.  He sighed, running his hand through his hair, trying to think.  What is it?  “Coren eower boga.”  Out of words, Faramir pointed to the shed.  The boys shuffled to it, murmuring to each other and glancing his way.  He tried to look on the bright side.  At least there is still no ill will in them.  Faramir rubbed his hands together, thinking he, too, needed a bow to demonstrate with.  I can do this.  I can.

***

            “I thought I said to cut his head off?”

            “It’ll take me a moment…” Éowyn smiled, feinting to the right.  Aragorn snorted derisively at her.  “I’m not sure how sharp this sword is…” She looked at him closely and teased,  “Eww, you’ve got an awfully thick neck.  I’m sure I’d need an axe for that thing.”

            He looked suddenly self-conscious.  “What are you talking about?”             

            Arwen began to laugh.  She’d seated herself near to Éomer, her skirts neatly folded.  Éowyn wrinkled her nose, teasing more.  Hmm, let your guard down...listen to me, that’s it…  “It’s…disgusting.  Gigantic, even.”

            His eyes flashed at her, realizing what she was doing.  “I’m sorry I cannot be as perfect…” He blocked her thrust, “as Faramir.  I’m sure he has a ideally proportioned neck.”

            She laughed despite herself.  Éomer made a noise of disgust loud enough for her to hear over the width of the dirt circle, her own quick breaths and the slow stepping of their feet.  Smiling, Éowyn shot back, “I just pity Arwen having to get next to that thing at night.  I’d be frightened.”

            The Queen answered airily, “Oh, don’t bother, I haven’t been near it very much at all.”  Her brother laughed delightedly as Aragorn winced.

             “I like her, I do.”  He sounded just a little off to her; Éowyn couldn’t look at him, though.

            They didn’t speak for several minutes; the only noises were the light thumps of their feet, their breathing and the clinks or long scrapes of steel on steel.  “You know…this is…” Aragorn circled her, his expression turning gleeful, “This is amazing.” 

            Éowyn watched him, never taking her eyes away.  Her voice was absent; her blood raced, making her feel alive as she waited.  “What?”  He held Andúril close, not striking and she grew impatient, slicing at him with a wide arc.

            “You.”  He blocked her, their blades clinking, and then resumed his circle.  “You’re just like fighting a little orc.  Better, of course, and far lovelier, but other than that…”

            “What?”  Insulted, she swung harder and faster; he had a more difficult time blocking her and Éomer laughed from the sidelines. 

            “Careful!  Gondor just got her king back!”  He jested and smiled, but something rang false.

            Éowyn tried to pay him no attention.  “An orc?”

            Aragorn grinned, “Just like one.  It’s remarkable, really.”

            She knew what he was doing and she didn’t care.  Éowyn struck at him again and again until she’d forced him well back against the grass, into a crouch.  “I really am going to cut your head off now.”

            The Queen called, “Best hurry, Master Peregrin has invited me along with you.” 

            “What?  Where?” 

            Arwen answered, sounding amused, “He wouldn’t say, but he did assure me of a good time.”

            Those little scamps.  She remembered promising Merry she would do something today.  “When…” Éowyn circled, “are we going?”

            “As soon as you’re done, I suppose.”

            Aragorn glanced over at his wife and then he winked at Éowyn, who frowned.  What is he…?  Suddenly he lunged at her, Andúril flashing.  Surprised, she raised her own blade and, although she only struck with enough force to block him, the great sword went flying to the dirt.  Andúril reverberated loudly as it fell; it sounded shocked.  Aragorn froze, holding his hands out, smiling at her.  He…he just let me win…astonished, she just stood there.

            He gave her a puzzled look and then jerked his head toward Arwen, raising his eyebrows in signification.  After a second, he muttered, “Well?  What are you waiting for?  Go!”

            Éowyn sighed deeply and said, crestfallen and pointing her unnamed sword at his throat,  “I win.”

            He hissed as her brother stood and offered a polite hand to Arwen, “Be back before dark—they still have to talk and I think Éomer wants you there.”

            She lowered her sword, irritated.  “All right.” 

            Éomer had come up to them now.  He was frowning a little, but then he nodded toward Andúril as it lay on the ground.  “Can I hold him?”

            “Swap for a moment?”  Aragorn was looking at his scabbard. 

            Her brother paused, then grinned, unsheathing and handing over Gúthwinë.  “Deal.”  He bent and picked up the King’s sword, hefting it and respectfully brushing the dirt from it’s long, shining span.  While he swung it, gazing at it in interest, with Aragorn looking down the length of Gúthwinë, as though measuring it’s straightness, Arwen asked,

            “So, are we…?”  She eyed the two men with an amused disdain.

            Éowyn sighed, still disappointed.  I wanted to win or lose on my own.  “Yes.  Just let me change clothes.”  

***

            The worst, Faramir found, was outlasting the lads’ amusement with his terrible accent.  The boys were patient as he searched for right words, waiting for his commands while standing at silent attention.  They were also respectful and even seemed pleased when he praised them, however clumsily.  “God, god.”  Their eyes wandered over his uniform, gazing at it with intense curiosity.  He wondered if they knew nothing of the white tree and the stars here.  If I had the words I could explain.  I haven’t been studying lately…  It showed; he struggled harder than he should with even simple sentences.

It was into the afternoon now and the sun, still shrouded in clouds, was pleasantly warm.  He walked down the line; they were facing the targets, their backs to him, arrows notched.  “Bogen.”  They bent their bows; the fletches of the arrows were dyed a different color and the lads arranged so that none in their group had the same color.  “Scoten.”  Arrows went everywhere; Faramir winced.  A few managed to hit the target.  They’re getting better…I think.  He sighed, “Eft, bogen.”  He carried one of the bows himself; it was a decent thing, shooting straight enough to be serviceable, but not of any special quality.  Faramir ached for his longbow; it was in Minas Tirith, though, and of no use to him here.  His smaller bow was all the way in his rooms, again of little use to him where he was.

            Again they bent their bows, a long row of young Rohirrim.  Their heads were a range of flaxens and reds that blended well with the brown and green uniforms.  “Scoten.”  I wish I had more words…if Éowyn were here I would not feel discomfited asking her.  Perhaps tonight, I can ask.  Maybe not just words useful here…he smiled to himself…maybe a few lessons of a more pleasurable nature.  He frowned, that is, if she’s no longer angry with me.  Sighing, Faramir said,  “Bogen.”  Perhaps I should give her another present…

            Coming to stand so that he could look down the line, he frowned deeper.  “Ná… dun.”  They lowered their bows, looking expectantly at him and he raised his, emphasizing the way he stood.  Faramir felt the familiar sensation of joy as he sighted, the string growing taut, pulling on his shoulder.  The discomfort would become pain if he held it long; pain that he knew meant a better shot. He gazed down the point of his arrow, feeling the world drop away.  Nothing existed but the shining point and where he wanted it to go.  Breathing in, he commanded, “Bogen.”  They attempted to imitate him.  Breathing out, he commanded, “Scoten.”  Faramir loosed the arrow, knowing already that it would go just where he wanted it—straight into the center of the target.  Smiling, he watched as the lads’ arrows flew just a tiny bit more accurately.  They are learning; I just don’t have enough words. 

***

            “No, absolutely not.”

            “But he wants to go!  And we got him here all by ourselves!”  Pippin hugged Shadowfax’s leg.  The big horse glanced at him, curious, and then bent his nose to the ground, sniffing for the remains of the carrots and apples he’d been offered.  Éowyn put her hands on her hips, trying to be stern.  Merry was looking up at her with a downcast expression, his eyes wide. 

“Why can’t you take a pony?”

“Pony?”  Pippin sounded horrified.  “I’ve ridden a mearas, I can’t go back!”

She tried not to laugh, keeping her voice forbidding.  “Didn’t you ride one here?”

“And it was horrible!”

Merry’s eyes got wider, his face innocent, “Please Mother?” 

“Please?” Pippin snickered and then they chorused together,

“Pluheeeeeeeeezz…”

“Fine!”  Arwen gave her a curious look as Éowyn sighed.  “If he’s going, you’re riding him by yourselves.”

            Merry blinked, “What are you doing?”

            “Taking a cart.  Someone is already hitching up the pony.”  I am not riding sidesaddle.  Arwen looked relieved, smiling slightly at the two hobbits.

            Pippin craned his neck way up, “How do we get him to lie down?”

             “Like this.”  Éowyn signaled and Shadowfax lowered himself carefully to his knees, and then flopped over with a grunt.  The great horse waited patiently, his long tail swishing in the dirt.  The hobbits scrambled up, Merry seating himself in front and once they were still, Shadowfax thrust himself back to his feet and stood.  His ears tipped back as he walked in a circle.  This is not particularly dignified of him, to haul about two hobbits and obey their fancies merely for some treats.  She smiled.  Lord of Horses, indeed, I know war-horses that would not stoop to do such things.  Firefoot was one; a more conceited horse I never saw.

            The pony and cart came, a groom leading the little grey by its bridle.  Pippin called impatiently over Merry’s shoulder, “Come on!” 

            “Where are we going?”  The Queen accepted the groom’s hand, stepping into the cart.  Éowyn sprang into it, her skirts hindering her only slightly; Arwen’s seemed to be heavier, more elaborate.  Thankfully, her green and gold dress was simply cut and comfortable.  Éowyn still wore her jade bracelet with it; the two greens, one soft, the other deep, went nicely. 

            Merry answered, “To a tavern.”

            “Really?  I’ve never been to one.”

            “Never been?” The hobbits sputtered.  Éowyn smiled, watching Shadowfax circle.  The pony nickered to him in a friendly fashion; the stallion answered with his voice deep.

            She asked, “Which?”

            “That’s up to you.”  Merry grinned, “Aragorn wouldn’t tell us about any, so we don’t know where any are.”

            “Of course he wouldn’t, he knew you’d go somehow.”  She gathered the reins and gave the groom an appreciative smile.  Clucking to the pony, Éowyn asked, “Why are we going to a tavern, anyway?”

            “Aragorn wouldn’t let us stop at any on the way…it’s our last chance until we reach Bree, I think.” 

            “That’s a long ways…I want some beer.” Pippin’s mournful voice made her laugh.  Arwen smiled.

            “All right, there’s one an hour away, you think you can wait that long, Master Hobbit?”

            “I suppose.” He was grudging.  The pony jogged out of Edoras, Shadowfax trotting easily alongside.  Éowyn admired his gleaming, silvery coat, remembering how he’d felt beneath her.  She glanced over at Arwen.  Too bad…No, stop it.  You have to try and talk to her for Aragorn; he’s tried for you…though with upsetting consequences…  fine, fine.  She took a deep breath; the hobbits had managed to get Shadowfax into a gallop and were drawing away.  Now’s the time.

            Before she could speak Arwen did.  “I know he wants you to talk to me.”  The lovely elven woman smiled, “I will tell you my troubles if you tell me yours…but only if you promise to tell Estel no more than I wish, ” Her fair face grew aggrieved, “the whole of it, I fear, would hurt him.”

            “Of course.  I promise.” 

            “We might as well start at the beginning.”  Arwen smiled suddenly; it was a true smile, wide and amused, “Did he ever tell you how I met him?”

            She glanced sideways, “No.”

            “Oh, good!”  The Queen leaned back and laughed delightedly, “Finally, one person shall hear the true version!”

            “True version?”  Éowyn let the reins flop loosely; the pony jogged down the road, its ears pricked.  It was well behaved and she wasn’t worried about any mischief. 

“Of course.  He wouldn’t want everyone to know what he was really doing; he leaves out that part every time.”  Arwen laughed again, shaking her head.  “Singing, ha!  You know, he wasn’t just singing.  If he’d been just singing I would have walked down another lane altogether and left him alone.” 

            “What was he doing?”  Now she was curious.  “Tell.”

            “All right.”  The Queen began gaily, “I thought he was addled, I swear, when I first heard him…”

 Translations:

Ic lufie ge.-- I love you.

 Ic eom giet hatheart.—I am still angry

Ac, Ic geaf bæc eower lufu in ful—But I return your love in full

Æfre, min deore—Always, my beloved.

Ic dyde ná hicgan hit—I did not think it

 He sewe hit in swilc... ac yfel weg...—He would see it in such…a bad way…

Hit wille beon eall riht.—It will be all right

Ge eart cuðlic?—You are certain?

Gea—yes.

Ligeð orsorg, min frendscipe.

Se beadu is gedon

Ond ná fracoð gemætan wille dræf ge,

hwil Ic eom her

Ge eart min heorte

min frendscipe

Ligeð orsorg, Ic eom her.

Sleep untroubled, my love.

The battle is over

And no bad dream will disturb you,

while I am here.

You are my heart,

my love.

Sleep untroubled, I am here.

Weardæfwudu—“Keeper of wood” rough Rohirric translation

Leofe broðra, hit is se lytle Bregu—Look brothers, it is the little Prince

Ond hit behêold gelic he losige ûre Ides…ond her hrægl tó head beæftan...And it looks like he has lost our Lady…and her skirts to hide behind…

Ge eart a lang foldweg hwæt eower eard.—You are a long way from your homeland.

Hlyston tó him!—Listen to him!

 He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!—He thinks he can talk back to me!

Âcwið eft!—Speak again!

Hwa?  Dyde cossian ûre Ides wêrig eower tunge?—What?  Has kissing our Lady wearied your tongue?

Âcwið níðing!—Speak coward!

His nama is Faramir ond he is æf Mundburg.  He wille ge-læran ge se boga.—His name is Faramir and he is from Minas Tirith.  He will teach you the bow.

Wes ðu hal, Faramir Hlaford—Hail, Master Faramir

Coren eower boga.—Choose your bow.

Bogen--Bend

Scoten--Shoot

Eft, bogen—Again, bend

Ná… dun—No…down.