Author's Notes: This is the beginning of what's looking to be a 5 chapter story.

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, and I am not making any money from writing this.

At first they were so happy that they didn't think.

They were sitting in the courtyard of the Sixth Circle under their favorite walnut tree—the one closest to the Eastern wall. The weather was warm now, sometimes quite hot, and Éowyn had not worn her new cloak, but a light cambric dress that Ioreth had brought for her from a seamstress in the Fifth Circle. She was leaning against the tree trunk, which rested by the narrow gravel walkway separting the lawn from the garden. Faramir resting nearby on the clipped grass opposite, and they were admiring one another in silence, dreaming of the near future when the heroes returned from Cormallen and they would marry. When the silence had grown too long, Éowyn felt the desire to fill it with something, and yet with her maiden's modesty could not think of how to cross the distance between them. She looked at Faramir inquisitively, beseechingly, but he seemed content to continue on without speaking. Without knowing why, she threw a pebble at him. But Faramir too was in a playful mood and returned fire with a small twig.

In retaliation, she hit him on the chest with another pebble and scooped a handful of the gravel.

"Stop! I concede!" cried Faramir, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Your weaponry is far superior to mine."

Éowyn tossed the gravel back where she had acquired it, grinning in triumph. "Will all our future disagreements be this easy to win?"

Faramir laughed. "Why of course. Don't you know that all the men of Gondor are completely henpecked by their wives?"

In mock outrage at the term 'henpecked,' Éowyn got up to leave. "Well, that won't do," she said, stepping onto the walkway. "I'll have to go find a more challenging husband."

Suddenly, Faramir caught her by the wrist and pulled her down to him on the lawn. Éowyn tumbled willingly into his arms, where she had been longing to be all night, and Faramir grasped her tightly as if he were wrestling a wild boar. "I'll give you challenging," he growled, pinning her to the earth while he loomed over her. "No, Faramir!" she squeaked, still playing along. Then he kissed her. Her back was flat upon the cool grass, and Faramir was settling over her, his weight pressing against her bosom. She felt her legs wrap around his, pulling her towards him desperately. His hands caressed her face, his fingers touched the nape of her neck.

Éowyn was breathing hard when he released her. Both of them became very shy and could not look at one another, knowing that what they wanted could not be yet. Faramir allowed her to sit upright and move further away from him, sitting to his right without touching him; but Éowyn surprised him by touching his hair with her left hand. Gently, she brushed his dark locks away from his brow.

"My brother will like you," she said, her eyes meeting his, and Faramir was pleased seeing as he would meet Éomer King tomorrow.

Faramir caressed the lily wrist of the hand playing in his hair, the hand that led to her once-broken shield arm. He lowered it to his lips and kissed the place that led to her calloused palm. Éowyn's lips parted and she sighed, a pleasant sound.

"I wish we were man and wife already," he told her.

Éowyn, knew he was being neither realistic nor completely serious, but felt it was dangerous to answer in his serious tone. Bending her head in exaggerated thought, she made a great show of coming up with a solution. She bit her lip and squinted her eyes. Then, at last, she appeared to have found one.

"I hear that in Harad, when a man wishes to take a wife, he rides up to her door, throws her over his horse and takes her home."

The scholar in Faramir couldn't help but be intrigued, and so he missed her sarcasm. His features were alight with interest. "Really?"

"No, I made that up."

"Oh," said Faramir, both amused and disappointed. "Well, I can still kiss you."

And he did exactly that.

Éomer rode at the column's head, beside Lord Aragorn, who was to be crowned king that day. Within two furlongs of the city, the great road that cut through the Pelennor had been rendered indistinguishable from the field itself, for the surrounding once-lush grass had been trampled to dust. All around them lay the wreckage of battle, though the corpses had been burned or buried. Pieces of armor, broken weapons and tattered standards were strewn over the field. Yet the mood was not gloomy, for everywhere ran children, picking up those discarded fragments as souvenirs. Citizens of Minas Tirith, and those who had come from the far corners of Gondor to celebrate, now poured onto the same field that they had once feared to tread lest the enemy catch them off guard. They had erected great pavilions and tents of many colors along the outskirts of the city from which the sounds of music and laughter emanated.

The sun shone upon the brows of the Lords of the West, which bore coronets of silver, gold and mithril. Their beards and locks were combed and oiled, and their armor glinted like fire. All the lords and knights rode clothed in livery of many colors. Proud were the steeds upon which they sat, stepping over the torn up ground with their heads held high, as if the horses themselves understood their part in the Great Triumph.

As the column approached, all came out to see the victorious; and some called out the names of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons when they saw them returned safely from the gates of Mordor. Now and then a soldier would stray from the column to greet his son or wife or daughter, swing them into his arms or upon his horse with a shout. Then back he rode, rejoining the column with a smile upon his beaming face.

And when the column was nearly to the pavilions erected within one-furlong's distance from the barrier, Prince Imrahil and his sons themselves broke from the column in order to hail a young maiden galloping towards them on a snow-white palfrey. Éomer assumed this to be the Princess Lothiriel, whom Imrahil had not stopped praising since their victory. Éomer King glanced briefly at the happy reunion, but otherwise kept his gaze forward, ever looking to the broken walls of the city. The white flag of the Stewards flew from every tower, and the light glinted from off the mountain like the hottest part of a blacksmith's fire, which is both painful and beautiful to behold. Minas Tirith--ancient and broken, well tested and true. How could he contain his joy at seeing what he thought he should never see again?

Beside him Aragorn spoke, "I know what you are feeling, for I feel it too. It is a miracle, what has happened."

"Yes," answered Éomer, the awe in his voice apparent. Yet Aragorn did not feel everything that he did. Behind Éomer Masters Gimli and Legolas were laughing with the hobbits, enjoying some joke or another. Éomer wished he could join them, but his fears drowned out their words. His heart foreboded what tidings he should find within the White City. He felt all too keenly his sister's absence. Éowyn had won great renown for herself, and by right ought to have ridden at his side. Yet she had sent him only a brief message that she was still suffering from her wounds and could not come to Cormallen. It had been impossible to divine her meaning from the scant words she had given the herald. "I cannot come," she had communicated. "I must remain in the Houses a little longer." But the hobbytla, Meriadoc, had come, and he had suffered from the same sickness. Did Éowyn's sadness linger? Would she come to greet him at the gate?

Imrahil returned to the column, sons and daughter in tow. Éomer saw they were riding towards him, and so he plastered a smile on his face. Truly, he was happy. Merely preoccupied.

The maiden did not appear to be fooled. She reigned in her horse with a studiously concerned expression upon her lovely face. Then she pushed a few stray hairs behind her ears, which drew attention to her delicate neck. Éomer liked her immediately. But Imrahil had not stopped riding, and continued on to Lord Aragorn a few feet away, who had strayed to the right of the column in order to speak with a member of the crowd gathering by the road. Lothiriel followed dutifully, although her gaze remained on Éomer. As she was introduced to Lord Aragorn, Éomer watched the proceedings with interest. Yet, he felt a great deal more pleasure when Imrahil and his daughter returned to him.

Prince Imrahil approached with a broad smile on his face as he reached for his daughter's hand. He was a kind man, and not conniving. It was obvious that he was not attempting to play matchmaker. He was merely a proud father, who had not seen his daughter in many months, and was now elated to see her again, so happy and beautiful. He wanted everyone to share his pride.

"Lothiriel, I present to you Éomer, Éomund's son, and King of Rohan," said Imrahil in a very casual voice. Then he made a motion from Éomer to Lothiriel. "My daughter, Éomer King." Éomer noticed that Imrahil had introduced him to Lothiriel and not Lothiriel to him, which was an odd breach of etiquette. Since he was of higher rank, she should have been presented to him. He was not offended, of course: only curious as to Imrahil's meaning. Perhaps he was saying that he was not attempting to arrange anything, and that he wanted him and Lady Lothiriel to have only a passing acquaintance.

At any rate, she did not attempt conversation, and Imrahil did not encourage it. Being a man, this seeming rejection only piqued Éomer's interest more. With almost all thought of Éowyn lost for the moment, he dared another glance at Lothiriel as she rode off to meet her brothers.

Elphir tossed a clump of grass at her, which caused her to sneeze. When Éomer heard her laugh, all thought of his sister left him completely.

Faramir was extremely tired when he awoke, for he had not returned to his chambers until half the night had passed. Perhaps this was not strictly within the bounds of propriety, but neither he nor Éowyn had cared. Nor, they guessed (and guessed correctly), would the people of the city; for all held them both in such high esteem that they could do no wrong. However, both he and Éowyn had realized that their languorous walks through the garden were at an end now that her brother was about to arrive. Whereas before they had been free, now they would be accountable to others and, no doubt, expected to attend the rowdy festivities that would inevitably follow the coronation. They had intentionally lost track of time.

Well, now he was paying for it.

The Steward stretched his limbs, yawned and rolled out of bed. He strolled to the ivory wash basin sitting before his looking glass and splashed the cool water over his face before looking up to see the damage. There were dark circles, but other than that he appeared healthy and happy.

His smiled with pleasure when he remembered that Éowyn would be receiving his gift right about now. A jewel on a gold chain--one of his mother's necklaces. He guessed that in general Eowyn was not a woman to be impressed with jewels, but nevertheless, it was something he could give her. She would be impressed with the thought.

When he was done washing, he called in his manservant to help him dress. However, Faramir dismissed him when it was time to gird on his sword. This he did himself, for it was his father's sword, and this was the first time he had ever worn it. It seemed a private matter.

In the end, however, the momentous nature of the event was spoiled when Faramir remembered that he must wear the sword hanging on his right as a sign of good-will. He then fumbled with the weapon, attempting to put it on in a way that felt unnatural. His wounded arm hindered even more when it refused to bend as far as he needed. Thus, the process of strapping on his sword took up a precious ten minutes at least. By the time he had finished, the bells were ringing from the towers. That was the signal that the King had been spotted in the distance.

Faramir panicked when he realized that he would be late. He bolted from his chambers, but felt somewhat lopsided as he walked with his sword hanging awkwardly on the right. He wondered if Éowyn would laugh at him, tripping over his sword like a clumsy child.

As he swept into the corridor, his manservant ran after him to cast a mantle of the deepest blue over his shoulders. Before Faramir could thank him, the same servant thrust the white rod of the Stewards into his hand.

Then the Steward proceeded down the steps, which led to his mount that was hopefully waiting outside. On the way, another pair of footsteps joined his. They were heavy as the man's steel sabatons clinked against the stone floor. Faramir knew without turning that this was Húrin, warden of the keys.

"Are we late, Lord Húrin?" asked Faramir, without missing a step.

"Not yet, my Lord."

They rushed to the base of the steps, the bells becoming deafening for a few moments as they passed beneath one of the bell towers. When they had passed through the tunnel, there were even more footsteps following from behind. Thus, the last ruling Steward and his entourage passed through the bell gate that opened to the fifth circle of the city, and there were greeted by the morning sun.

Faramir leapt upon his horse, as did Húrin and the other great nobles, who had remained in the city. Then they spurred their horses to a brisk walk, and prepared to meet their king.

Éowyn and Marshal Elfhelm had arrived along with all the Captains of the Riddermark well before the bells of the city had first sounded. Earlier in the morning a few of the soldiers had decided to hold a boulder-throwing contest with a few fragments taken from the Orc projectiles, which had so recently pummeled the city walls. As more and more men expressed interest the Lady Éowyn had been sent for to serve as the judge.

Although, she had been exhausted, Éowyn had complied, eager to take part in her peoples' camaraderie. There had been great hopes that the winner of the contest would be given a kiss as his prize, but Éowyn had refused and there had been a great joke that Faramir would storm down from the citadel and punish them for their insolence. In the end she had kissed the winner on his forehead. But now that was all over; the bells were ringing; and the King was within sight.

However, Faramir was not, and Éowyn worried that they might have stayed up too late the previous night. He had probably slept in by accident. Even though it was probably not the case, Éowyn felt as if the whole city were watching her—wondering where their Steward was and wondering if perhaps she had left him tied up somewhere.

The men had known about it…the city knew about it. She didn't mind them knowing, but she hoped no one would let anything about her betrothal slip to her brother. That was a privilege all her own, and she anticipated it with a mixture of both excitement and dread.

Then the hurried clop of many hooves was heard and forth rode the Steward and his men to the city gate. Éowyn felt her heart burst with joy as she beheld him for the first time in his official robes of state. She did not rejoice because he was the Steward and she was to be the Stewardess. She rejoiced because she saw him looking so formal and aloof, yet knew that even as he made his way towards the city gate holding his white rod of office to greet his sovereign, he was thinking of her.

The ceremony was brief, for the day had become hot and all the lords were melting under their heavy robes and armor. Éomer guessed that the Steward had spoken faster than was entirely necessary, but felt grateful. Also, he had wanted very much to speak with Éowyn. And so, he swung up on Firefoot's back and directed him to his sister rather than remain beside Aragorn. King Elessar, Éomer corrected himself.

Éowyn had gone to find Windfola, but she had probably seen him coming, for she remained where she was after she swung up onto the horse's back.

She seemed to watch him with some trepidation, but she was radiant as he had not seen her in many years. He led Firefoot as close to her horse as was safe, and then he gathered her in a firm embrace.

"Éowyn," he murmured, overcome with emotion. The last time he had held her, she had been so weak, so frail. And even that had been a miracle, for he had left her for dead on the battlefield. Now she was clutching him back tightly with strong arms. The war was over, and all was well. Or so he thought.

When he pulled away from her, he noticed the slight puffiness below her eyes, signs that she was not sleeping well. He wondered whether that was due to her illness or for some other reason. He hoped it was not on Aragorn's account, for he had only recently learned that the King was promised to another, and he was certain that Éowyn did not know this. He had great affection and respect for Lord Aragorn, but in this matter of his sister he felt the man had behaved ill. But perhaps, were he in the same position, he would not have acted any differently.

"Éomer," said Éowyn, smoothing out the wrinkles she had made in his cape. She did not notice his concern for her. "It is so good to see you again, and I have so much to tell you . . . "

Éomer would have remained by her side all day to hear whatever it was she had to say, if Erchirion, Imrahil's son, had not interrupted. He galloped in and reared his horse, as if to show off his horsemanship. "My Lord, the procession is leaving you behind. Hurry up, or you'll be left with the women."

Then he noticed Éowyn, who had been partially hidden from his sight behind her brother. Erchirion reddened a little when he saw her and then galloped away without saying anything else.

Éomer returned his attention to his sister. "We will talk as we go up."

"Was that one of the Prince's sons?" she asked. "I saw them talking to each other."

"Yes. That was Lord Erchirion, his second son," replied Éomer, suddenly fired by a new idea at her curiosity. As far as he knew, Éowyn had never met or seen Imrahil other than that terrible day on the Pelennor, and she had been unconscious then. Perhaps, then, she had liked the look of one of his sons, and had inquired after him during the ceremony. That might be a good match for his sister. Or perhaps Elphir or Amrothos if she did not like Erchirion. They were all good men, if a little impetuous. He wouldn't push her to marry any of them, but if her sudden happiness was due to Aragorn's return alone, then it might help her to forget him later if she had someone else.

He quizzed her as they made their way through the city. "Why didn't you come to Cormallen?"

Éowyn blushed a little, which was remarkable. Éomer was not accustomed to seeing his sister's face flush. Nor was he accustomed to that secretive little smile that followed. He was intrigued.

She pushed her golden tresses behind her back, for they had fallen in her face, and stammered as she searched for a response. But then another interruption intruded upon their conversation, for an old woman tugged gently on Éowyn's skirts. To his surprise, the woman handed to his sister a small bundle of white flowers. Asphodel. That was what the Gondorrim used for wedding garlands.

"Thank you," he heard Éowyn say to the woman in response to something he hadn't heard. Éomer's brow furrowed with suspicion. Éowyn did indeed have many things to tell him.

"What did she say?" he pressed her.

Éowyn sniffed the flowers, still smiling. She was off in another world and hadn't heard the question. So Éomer repeated it.

"Oh, she wished me joy," was her vague answer. Éomer might have been irritated, but he sensed that Éowyn was not purposely lying to him. She was merely preoccupied with some thought, and didn't seem to notice that no one else knew what it was.

Or maybe he was the only one who didn't know what it was. She hadn't mentioned Aragorn, so perhaps that wasn't it after all. It occurred to Éomer that she might have met someone else during her brief stay in the city.

But then, why had her eyes fallen upon Aragorn so often during the ceremony? She had gazed upon the king with such love and joy.

Éomer was about to tell her once and for all that the King was in love with another, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would either shatter her happiness, or make him look like a fool for thinking something that wasn't so. He determined to let her come to him. Eventually, Éowyn would tell him.

But if it was Aragorn…well, maybe Imrahil would say something first about a possible union.

As Éomer thought of Imrahil, he searched for his daughter and found Lothiriel up ahead, this time conversing with Legolas. An expression similar to his sister's came over his face; and the two siblings continued riding in silence, though neither one realized they weren't speaking.