Chapter 1

Eowyn, Princess of Ithilien, was unpacking her bedroom. Her new home at Emyn Arnen blissfully clear of workmen and building noise but alas not dust. At last. Faramir strode out after breakfast, intent on putting to rights the stable. Elsewhere cooks and the head housekeeper were organizing the household. The bedroom was all she could think of. Ours, she thought, not the Steward's quarters in Minas Tirith where they were at everyone's beck and call.

After several happy hours organizing, the morning sun streaming in through their eastern window, she went to the last chest. The battered trunk was Faramir's, his name in a childish script across the leather. She knew it held mementos, his first dagger, some special books. Perhaps she should have waited, but the wish to be done was too strong. She lifted out the short cloak, mail shirt and dagger, thinking, as she lay them in a low drawer, of a day when another boy might wear them.

Next came the silver frame with its pattern of gull wings and seashells about a painting of Finduilas, his mother. This and a small wooden horse she laid carefully on the window sill where he would see them. From the bottom of the trunk she lifted a piece she didn't recognize: a small carved wooden box, carved in Elvish runes, worn as if from long use. Enchanted by its beauty, Eowyn worked the small silver clasp shaped like a mallorn leaf. Some few dry leaves, now crumbling, lay inside with a coiled leather tie. Caught in the tie was a token of long black hair. Finduilas she thought, smiling, dark like her son.

Just then, her husband strode in, 'Eowyn, dear heart, are we winning the battle? The mess outside seems more not less"

She turned and flushed. As his gaze took in the box in her hands, Faramir's gay smile suddenly stilled. Embarrassed like a child caught out she quickly closed the clasp and set it down. "I am sorry my love, I simply thought to clear out another trunk."

"Eowyn, you are my wife, we share everything" He walked to the window sill, fingered lightly the picture frame. I should have done this sooner.

Into the sudden silence, Eowyn thought, Why is it so hard for men of Gondor to share? She of the Rohirrim was used to open emotion; grief, love, anger, it was all the same. Open like the sky. Gondor to her at times seemed stifling. Surely we can share this? Did her blunt and carefree manners at times make her seem rude to this cultured man of Gondor?

Determined, she tried again. "Faramir could we not make a small shrine to honour our sires, as we do in Rohan? Her token and picture could go there." It seemed fitting too for Theoden's funeral cup.

"It is a lovely idea, we should do so". He paused. It would be more helpful if I could only lie. "But not the token, it is not my mother's."

As the import of his words settled, a brush-fire of jealousy flared. How dare he?

Faramir could not fail to miss the flash of anger in his wife's eyes. But as quick to settle as to flare, the lady temporized. Why would you think you have been the only one? Striving to master her emotion, she tried for more graceful Gondoran tolerance. 'I was a maid, even if old among my people. You are a man with many campaigns won and lost. I do not begrudge you other loves."

The Steward hesitated, certain it might be ill advised to speak more. No more than to stop now. 'Eowyn, I was celibate these five years, giving myself only to the city and my company. Now I give myself to you. But in my youth, I did love."

'Are there many memories I must compete with?" Eowyn said, unable to stop herself, her tone light, but perhaps a shade too high. 'Please not painted courtesans in silks and perfume' she thought furiously to herself.

Faramir reached out, with one hand he traced a finger along her cheek and with the other he stilled the golden strand of hair she was winding nervously around her hand. He sighed. This is a trap of my own devising. "Another shield maiden such as you, Eowyn, clearly I do cleave to valiant maidens. Though for her the bow was her weapon. She was for a time a ranger in Ithilien…and my wife"

"Your wife?" Not quite shocked speechless, she thought 'are not women of Gondor fragile flowers in delicate cages?' "No one said you were married before!"

"Because by our laws I was not. She was not a woman of Gondor, Eowyn, she was an Elf-woman of Rhovanion, Mirkwood as we call it".

'An Elf?!'

"Yes, sometimes by the Valar's grace our two peoples join. My mother's people of Dol Amroth trace their lineage so."

Jealousy and curiosity vied to toss caution to the wind. "Why didn't you tell me? Who was she?'

He resisted the why and tackled the who. 'She was Captain-General of King Thranduil's guard, a far more experienced warrior than I.'

Faramir turned away. Though he looked out on the pale new leaves in their garden, he heard the sounds of another spring; rippling laughter. Remember this day. He spoke so low it was almost to himself. 'That which brought her to me, took her away'.

Eowyn felt suddenly ashamed, touched his back in hesitation. He was so proud, so strong. We must share our burdens also.

As if he caught the thought, Faramir sank down on the window bench, pulled her down to sit beside him. Begin as you mean to go on. "Would it ease your heart to know the story?" he asked. She nodded. 'Very well' He began to speak.