Chapter One: What Was It In the Past?

The overhead braziers gave the wide corridor a golden glow. The air smelled faintly of grease from the smoke. Faramir's dutiful squire Bergil, son of Beregond, had been sitting in a chair near the outside door. The boy rose when the Steward came in, deep in thought.

Now was not the time for a social visit, Faramir agonized, feeling the strain of responsibility fight against his need to set matters straight with his wife. He was vaguely aware that Bergil was at his side, dogging his footsteps as he paced down the hall.

She said she didn't feel anything when Aragorn grabbed her, Faramir considered his wife's words. But she certainly felt something afterward, enough to wish Queen Arwen dead. It did seem odd that Arwen was the only person his wife had ever wished to die. Then again, her vile thoughts toward Arwen happened before Eowyn tasted real battle.

Surely she wanted the orcs and Haradrim on the Pelennor fields, not to mention the Witch King, to die as she charged among them. But on the other hand, she had never mentioned lying in her bed, hoping that unseen forces might kill the Witch King. She didn't even know of Angmar's existence before she met her fate. She just snuck into the Pelennor Fields and there the fiend was.

“Wild wife,” he muttered with no small amount of pride as he entered the Great Hall of their manor house.

"I beg your pardon, your highness?" Bergil asked.

Faramir started. He didn't realize that he had said anything. Bergil took his job so seriously. There was little that the boy didn't notice.

“Have a messenger sent out to the King," Faramir ordered curtly. "Tell him that Eowyn is feeling poorly with her condition and that we will come tomorrow morning, instead."

The youth turned on his heel, "Yes, your Highness."

Faramir's wretched mood was broken just then. "See here, Bergil, you don't have to call me "highness." I've yet to experience what makes princes high."

"I'll have that messenger sent out right away, my Lord Steward," Bergil straightened up brightly.

"Better," the flummoxed Steward admitted. "But, simply My Lord Faramir, even Captain Faramir, will do." As Bergil's footsteps echoed down the end of the hall, Faramir turned to see his wife standing quite still in the archway. Her reams of golden hair swirled about her, partially concealing her expanding waistline. Her determined mouth was turned down slightly as the close-set blue eyes regarded him levelly.

And then she made her move. She bounded up to him, grabbed his cheeks in either hand, and forced his head down so that she could kiss him. At first, his arms were limp at his sides as he refused to respond to the pressure of her lips on his. But then, he gave in, and his arms slowly went around her waist with a vast sense of relief.

Eowyn pulled her face away and regarded him like a mother admonishing her child, “Your far-sightedness failed you just now, sweet Husband. Didn't you know that I really don't want to see them this evening for a variety of reasons?"

"I did figure that out," he responded guiltily. "I pleaded your belly. Babies can be an excellent excuse. But we still have to go to Minas Tirith tomorrow. They are back, and we can no longer avoid our social responsibilities to them," Faramir added and then took a deep breath.

She put her hand in the crook of his arm; they slowly walked down the corridor into the new Great Hall of their manor. Recently completed tapestries, depicting the Lady's victory at the Battle of the Pelennor fields, hung on the walls. Unused tables were pushed against them. A comfortable, new-fangled day bed was set up parallel to the great fireplace that warmed the huge room.

The March evening was turning cold. The servants had ramped up the fire. Soon they'd pull out one of the heavy tables and serve dinner for the Prince and Princess of Ithilien.

Wouldn't it be much nicer to have them set a modest tray of foods right here by the fire, Faramir thought. He stretched himself over the length of the daybed, using its solitary arm as a rest for his upper back.

That daybed was wide enough for an adult and perhaps a child, but not for two full grown people. So, naturally, he took up all of it. "My dear Lord Steward," Eowyn squished down in the little space left below Faramir's shoulders, her fingers playing with his soft lips.

"I will tell you all I can, if I can find the words..." but she gasped a little, almost in relief as he started nibbling on her fingers. “Oh stop, one moment you are so serious, the next moment teasing. Move over a little while I tell you how felt when we first met..." If I can remember it clearly, she added to herself, hopefully. She marked how the tension seemed to be leaving his muscles. Before he'd been tight as one of his bowstrings.

Faramir turned onto his back, almost pushing her off the cushions as he held out his arms, “Then lie on me, Wild Wife, for we'll otherwise be cramped for what I hope will be a nice, revealing tale.”

“Our child and I will squash you,” she laughed gently as she gingerly stretched out atop him, her back resting on his long stomach. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to free his trapped arms to wrap them around her, his hands resting over her breasts.

“I particularly like this change,” he noted appreciatively. “I hope that they won't become small when our child is born.”

Though she loved the touch of his hands on her body, it was all she could do to keep from elbowing him in the ribs. Her powerful but sensitive husband so hated war, for all that war had consumed his whole life. He was not at all like the men of Rohan, who thirsted for battle and fretted in the peace. However, when it came to conjugal matters, her dearest lord was but the same as any human male of her experience. That is, he conformed quite predictably to the tales of the Rohan warriors' wives she'd heard in her youth, and her beloved herbalist manual, “Collected Wisdom of the Elder Women of Gondor.”

“My breasts are full of milk and will remain so until our child is weaned,” Eowyn said matter-of-factly, proud of her hard-won learning. “I don't mind their larger size, but they tend to hurt.”

Faramir's lips pressed against her ear, “Then I shall massage them for you – Ooof!” This time Eowyn's elbow dug deep in her husband's diaphragm, as she twisted onto her side to look him in the eye.

“You wanted to know when I realized that I loved you,” she challenged. “Do not distract me, or the words may never make their way to my mouth.”

What a handful she is,” Faramir thought as he contracted involuntarily to the pressure of her arm. Eowyn's face, slightly swollen like the rest of her body, seemed to gleam as she hovered over him. How could he doubt her feelings? If only she was comfortable in making those feelings known.

“I am happy enough to have you prove your love right now,” he raised an arm, gently urging her to lie down again. “However, if you truly intend to tell me your story, I will happily listen until your weight overwhelms me. Talk, Wild Wife.”

“It's so long ago,” Eowyn rested back, cradling her head against the side of Faramir's chin. “I don't know how much I can remember or want to remember of the darker events that led me to your side. Do you really want to hear them?” she asked.

“I do, since you forgot to tell me about them ....”

Eowyn's Tale Begins with a Bitter Promise

Thoughts of a husband, real or imagined, were hardly in her mind two years ago, as she twisted in her bed in Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing. She was alone, trying to find a comfortable position for her shattered arm, trying to find comfort for her shattered hopes.

Eomer had visited numerous times before the Captains of the West rode for their impending journey to the Black Gate. On his last visit, she demanded to join them. Her brother appeared to be severely troubled, “Eowyn, you have only the use of one arm,” he said, stating the obvious.

“My right arm is strong,” she reminded him then. “I care not if my left cannot carry a shield. I do not expect to live. Do you?”

Eomer sat beside her on the humble but comfortable bed. “I cannot count on living past the Black Gate. But I must count on your living, Eowyn. Whether we succeed or fail, I still might fall in battle. Neither you nor I have children. We are the last of Theoden's line.” His hand lifted her chin so that he could regard her directly. Eowyn wanted to lower her head but her brother's hand prevented that.

“So you must stay here and recover. You may have dreamed of being a queen, my sister, or thought you should have been one. If I should not return, you will, indeed, be Queen of Rohan, by Theoden's will and my decree.”

She felt her stomach constrict as the enormity of her situation descended on her. In effect, her brother was ordering her to get well, return to lead their people, marry a man of noble birth, and produce a legacy of children. Though once she had desired such a perfect life, it was not at all what she wanted in the near future. Would there even be a future for her people? No, Eowyn wanted what all men, and too many women, of Rohan dreamed of these days—a swift, glorious end in battle.

“You must have a future, even if you can't face it now,” Eomer pleaded. “Not all of our troops go with me in our combined host. Most Rohirrim who survived are camped outside the city or here, injured, like you. Only those that specifically chose to go to Mordor ride with Aragorn and myself.

"Promise me that you will stay here. Give those Rohirrim that remain here the opportunity to ride back with you and return the remains of our uncle to our home. Make a last stand for Rohan if I cannot. Or, if we should prevail, prepare a celebration worthy of the greatest sagas.”

Eowyn composed her features and sniffed back her tears as she draped her right arm over Eomer's shoulders, “May your name be remembered in the songs of our people, for as long as those songs exist. But from myself, go with the love of a sister for her brother.”

After he left, she sank onto the bed yet continued to look out the door , which Eomer had neglected to close. The sun set and shadows enveloped her room. Still she stared out the door onto the corridor, her arm heavy with pain. Her mind lingered on the image of her brother, as he left her. And then her mind lingered sadly on Aragorn, as he said farewell with a gentle rebuke at Dunharrow, reminding her again of the futility of her dreams of love between them. Someday she would know real love, predicted the man who would be the king of Gondor-if he indeed returned.

Eowyn thought bitterly, If the free peoples of the West survive the next few weeks, perhaps real love will have a chance, perhaps for hose left among us, but not for me.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal. It is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.