Eowyn walked in the green and cool garden every day that followed. She told herself she simply needed air and exercise but in truth she found herself looking forward to meeting him each day. The Steward would most often be found beside the fountain, and they would walk the garden paths, in easy silence or more often in quiet talk.

At times she felt as if Faramir had cast a spell on her, so easy was he to talk to. He was a puzzle: knowledgeable about many things, lore and languages and poetry even; yet he was clearly a man of war. She knew he had been a captain of a Gondorian eored, Merry had told her that much. Yet here was a soldier speaking lightly of plants and flowers in the garden as if he were healer; a soldier with gentle eyes and quiet words. A puzzle indeed.

She thought back with a flush to the day before, when the weather had been grayer and a cool north wind came up. They had stood beside the garden wall, looking eastward. He was speaking of the fair green hills just visible in the distance but she had had a hard time following his words; she kept noticing the silky red-gold strands of his long hair, as the wind blew them about his face. She had shivered a little with the chill, she had no warmer clothes that were suitable to the City, only leggings and a jerkin and she could not wear those.

His fair blue eyes had looked concerned when he noticed that she trembled. Gallantly he had turned her round to shelter in the lee of his warm body. They stood very close for what seemed an age, she had looked into his eyes and felt that she could drown in them, they were blue as a river and just as dangerous underneath. Were there currents of desire that swirled in their depths? She was unsure. He had looked up as one of the guards approached and he asked the man to bring a cloak from his rooms.

When the cloak arrived she was overwhelmed, it was a stunning midnight blue, trimmed at neck and hem with silver stars.

"Whose was this my lord?" she had asked, entranced at its beauty. It looked richly made, fit indeed for a queen.

"It was my mother's." he had replied, a look of wistfulness within his eyes. "I remember her wearing it at the winter ball so long ago. It is too lovely not to be used and I should think its colour would suit you well."

Faramir had stood in front of her and very close as he rested the cloak upon her shoulders. As its soft embrace enveloped her she felt his warm breath upon her cheek and throat. She noticed a smell of soap and a green herb she could not name. His tunic was loose about the neck where the bandages wound across his chest; above them she saw a sheen of herbal salve and a few red-gold curls.

Bema, why was she noticing this man, when it was Aragorn she loved? She looked up to catch his gaze but that did not help. What was wrong with her?

Heedless of the sling, his fine long fingers reached up and barely brushed her throat as he did up the cloak's elegant silver clasp. At his touch she felt a warmth flood through her and a tingling in her fair flower that was frightening and thrilling all at once. Her cheeks flushed red and she felt dizzy: her heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Would he know it was his touch and not the wind that made her tremble like a leaf?

She felt his piercing blue gaze upon her; it seemed he looked right through her and saw exactly what she thought.

The melting warmth became a raging fire as strong hands roamed lightly from the clasp to hold her shoulders. Her lips had parted slightly, yearning to be kissed. She could not take her eyes from the bow-shaped mouth that hovered closer as he bent his head just slightly. The blue eyes glittered. Were they really going to kiss? It was improper but she did not care. In that moment all she could think of was the fire and the need.

Their lips were just a breath away. A warm strong chest leaned closer and suddenly her splinted arm was pressed into his side. Both yelped, her broken arm was jarred. Startled by the pain, she had stepped back. What was she doing? Even a shieldmaiden didn't behave so brazenly with a man she barely knew.

It seemed the Steward too was ruing his behavior. He had stepped quickly back and moved his hands: his left arm held carefully to his side within the sling. "My lady, forgive me, your beauty is intoxicating." His warm baritone voice was rough with emotion and embarrassment. As he bowed carefully she had seen a worried and pained look within his eyes.

Confused and uncertain what to say, the brave shieldmaiden had lost her courage and simply fled.

Now Eowyn sat hidden beneath the spreading fronds of the great cedar tree, not wanting to be found; not trusting her traitorous body to school itself beside the Steward. This could not be. It was Aragorn she loved and hoped she could yet win. Now destined to be Elessar, the King, he was a lord indeed and held her heart, not the gentle Steward. It was Elessar she wished to follow didn't she?

This morning she had come to the garden late, well past the time she and Faramir would see each other. Of course he had long since gone. How ridiculous that she found herself disappointed and missing their daily talk. What had she expected, that he would sit all morning alone waiting just for her? Besides it was the King she wished to think of. Resolutely she turned her gaze past the garden wall toward the east, thinking of the Host and their peril still to come. It would be many days yet before they reached the Morannon and Aragorn challenged the Enemy in earnest.

Try as she might Eowyn could not keep her thoughts from turning back toward the Houses and the Steward of the City. She wondered that he was not married and for a moment worried that in fact he was but was simply toying with her. No she thought, he was clearly an honourable man, and valiant, a captain that men would follow but kind and gentle. There was a grave tenderness in those piercing blue eyes and a shadow of some deep sadness she did not understand. Thinking of those eyes and the feel of his strong hands upon her shoulder she longed to ease his pain, to feel his touch again and to feel his lips upon her own. Bewildered she felt every part of her come alive at the thought of him; skin aflame, cheeks on fire, even her nipples seemed to tauten. How could her body betray her so, when her heart was given to another?

She shook her head. After her wanton behavior of the day before what would he think of her? Would he think her as a spoiled princess and a rough shieldmaiden both; pouting like a child over the direction of her rooms and then brazenly looking at him and letting him touch her? Bema what was wrong with her?

Anxious and agitated she stood and walked toward the wall, placing a hand upon the stone and looking out over the Pelennor. With a shudder she remembered the field that day, the terror of the Witch King; black and vile, the noise and clash of battle; the screams of dying men and horses. Never would she chose to face their like again. In her heart she knew that even the thought of picking up a sword was unwelcome: it reminded her of the chill and pain she felt when she had struck the blow. Before it had all been but a game, practicing with real steel yes, but not doing any harm. The reality of war was far far worse than the young shieldmaiden had ever guessed. She was lucky to have survived the battle, to have see her brother's face again and the grave, steady gaze of her love as she awoke.

Eowyn smiled then just a little remembering the feeling of Aragorn's touch upon her cold and lifeless arm. Days later it was warm again but still felt weak. Marshall Elfhelm had visited the day before and asked if she wanted a dagger to exercise with, to build up her strength and skill again. She had demurred, he seemed to accept that she might yet be tired, but really she could not admit to her commander that what she wished was to give up soldiering. She was not sure she could admit it to herself. What had changed in the past few days that she longer wanted to ride to war? Did she finally know herself at last?

Eowyn had always followed what was expected of her, done her best to be a brave shieldmaiden and practice all the drills. It was hard now to be in doubt when everyone kept complimenting her brave deeds, expecting her to be stern and hard, the warrior who would be renowned forever. Drat it, she was tired of constantly doing what everyone else wanted her to do: be the dutiful niece and sister; the brave warrior; the steadfast love waiting patiently for the King to find out if his betrothed would have him after all. Was it not time for her do to as she wanted?

In her heart of hearts Eowyn knew that what she really wanted was to find a man who loved her passionately and wildly. Someone to whom she could surrender; give in to his sensuous touch and become a real woman: a woman whose hands were gentle, were loving and willing to do whatever a man really desired. She wanted someone in whose arms she could truly melt, be held safely and forever in a strength that only a man could give. Someone to whom she could give herself completely.

Why in Arda did she picture the Steward's soft blue eyes when she thought of this?