Disclaimer: It's not mine. I'm just having a bit of fun. Please, please don't sue me.

The past week had been nothing but revelry in varying degrees; even when he awoke very late at night and the world was dark as pitch, Faramir knew he heard celebratory music and cheers somewhere, admittedly perhaps ringing in his ears. He fit in poorly at parties, so worried about offending someone or saying the wrong thing or trodding upon someone's foot that he went around with a cherry glow of embarrassment. Not an evening this week had passed but Faramir was asked if he had perhaps imbibed a sip too many and did he need to sit down?

But that night, Faramir was truly happy, for the party he attended was held in his honor, and Lady Éowyn's, on the eve of their wedding. After an hour the weedy bookworm excused himself, stumbling, pasting on his grin and drinking too many toasts to count on his way to the door. At last he reached the night air. He inhaled deeply, smiling to himself. Tomorrow he would be wed, and tonight… tonight he ached for her, to hold her and touch her skin.

There was more to Faramir's love. He longed to spend his days making her smile. He wanted to be with her every moment, listen to every word she said. Every book he read since meeting her, he had longed to ask her opinion on, but he was busy, and she, and between his duties to King and country and the exhaustion of a healing body, there had been little time for privacy between the betrothed—not that, being unmarried, they would have been allowed privacy anyway. Tomorrow, though, as Faramir well knew, she would lie in his arms.

Looking out across the Pelennor, Faramir felt his heart sink. Could he be so pleased with his poor country so in ruin? Was it acceptable because out of the ashes burned the brightest of flames?

"Faramir."

He turned at the voice. For a moment Faramir could not place it, and he squinted into the darkness. Then he bowed. "King Éomer."

"There's no call to that. We'll be brothers on the morrow."

Faramir winced, realizing what Éomer meant to do. He sighed. Tradition is a baffling thing, but Faramir was Denethor's son. He knew better than to question. "Please… be quick. I understand."

Éomer started. In a nation of horse-lords, behavior is an inconsistent thing. It must change with the very winds. "Faramir…"

"Only please know, I would never hurt Éowyn," Faramir insisted, feeling his attempt vain. "I want to devote my life to making her happy. And if ever I for some reason, by some error of judgment or temporary insanity, did make her miserable, I would welcome retribution. Only know, Éomer, there is nothing you could do to me worse than what I would do to myself for such a crime."

Éomer sighed. "Consider it done," he said. He offered his hand which Faramir gladly clasped in friendship. "Éowyn cares not for this tradition. She tells me she can defend herself as well as I, and I believe her. Perhaps," he added slyly, "she needs reminding more than you!"

Faramir smiled. "Any retribution I earn from Lady Éowyn will be well deserved. But thank you, Éomer. My brother told me that the day I married, my bride's brothers or cousins or all would beat me soundly as a reminder to look after the one they love. In a way I think it a decent thing."

"It is decent when men are not so true as yourself," Éomer replied. "I am glad my sister found you."

Faramir blushed at the praise. He began to speak, but closed his mouth swiftly when Éomer continued, "Were Boromir here, I cannot but think he would have a very stern word with Éowyn. And I will warn you, brother to brother, that it would not be ill-deserved!"

the end