Note: in the last chapter, Éowyn and Éomer discussed his encounter with Lothiriel in the aftermath of the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Since then, I've written a short piece telling the story of this encounter. You don't have to read it to enjoy this chapter, but it might fill in a bit of the background. It's called The Red Tower of Ecthelion.

It is the second day since my arrival, and I feel as though I have not so much as paused for breath. I had hoped to stay with Faramir's uncle, in the town house owned for centuries by the princes of Dol Amroth. But no, I am Éomer's sister (and his heir) and so I must stay in guest chambers within the Royal Palace. Queen Arwen has been welcoming to me, but as with Legolas when he was in Edoras, I find myself ill at ease in the company of Elves. They seem strange, untouchable, so far set apart from the concerns of mere mortals, and I cannot read their faces or discern the workings of their minds.

I have also seen relatively little of Faramir. We were seated beside one another at dinner, and to be able to talk to him was comfort beyond measure, but raised high upon the dais, with all eyes looking at us, there was precious little chance for either of us to touch the other, even surreptitiously. At one point, he did whisper in my ear just how much, and in what ways, he had missed me. I swear that as he did so I glimpsed Arwen watching us, a tiny smile playing upon her lips. Then I saw her lean over to whisper something into the king's ear. Whatever she said, it caused Aragorn to smile broadly. Perhaps, I reflect, Elves are not as inscrutable as I thought. I certainly suspect that she does not find mortals at all inscrutable, but then I suppose she has had many years of practice in reading Aragorn's face.

The next morning, Faramir arrived to accompany me to the Dol Amroth townhouse, where he introduced me to his aunt, the Lady Ivriniel, and his cousin Elphir's wife, the Lady Galwien. They were kind, and well meaning, and (I think) found me exceedingly strange. However, they did me the great service of explaining much of what was to be expected of me at the wedding and helping to untangle some of the nuances and complexities of court behaviour which would otherwise have passed me by. Ivriniel, in particular, proved to be a mine of information. Although she turned out to be every bit as prudish and overly concerned with decorum as Lothíriel had hinted to me all those months ago, she also turned out to know every last detail of the political and familial alliances. I fear it will take me a long time to get to grips with Gondorian life, but at least I will not put my foot (clad in its unfeminine riding boot) in my mouth too many times. And thanks to Ivriniel, I finally know the name of Castamir's wife: Merendis. Though it was Galwien who revealed a quiet sense of humour by explaining to me (while Ivriniel was out of earshot) that never was a name more inappropriately given. My insufficient grasp of Sindarin had led me to miss the irony, but apparently Merendis means "joyous wife."

However, today my heart lifts. I am to meet Faramir in the gardens of the Palace. As I walk through the gates of the garden, I see that Faramir has brought my promised visitors. They both look terribly shy, pale faced and wide-eyed. The boy sketches a slightly gawky attempt at a courtly bow; his younger sister's courtesy is much better executed.

Faramir rests his hands gently on their shoulders. "These are my foster children, Borlas and Nimwen. This is the Lady Éowyn."

The children both have the dark hair characteristic of Gondor, but they have gren eyes, rather than Numenorian grey. The boy comes up nearly to Faramir's shoulder, the girl a handspan or two smaller. I smile at them, and say, "Come, I have asked for a picnic to be laid out for us." I give a wink to Faramir: I hope that food will ease the initial awkwardness. I have every intention in this instance of being the sort of indulgent adult who allows the children to eat honey cakes before they have to eat their meat. I lead them to the small bower in the centre of the garden. As we walk across the grass, Borlas turns to look at me, examining me with the intent expression and complete lack of self consciousness that only a child can muster.

"Is it really true that you slew the Witch King?" he asks.

"Yes, indeed I did."

"I should like to do that – well, not that, precisely, for he is dead and I cannot very well kill him all over again," the boy says solemnly. "But I should like to ride to battle and do deeds of great renown that the minstrels will sing of in years to come." This speech is delivered very earnestly, with hardly a pause for breath.

"So should I," says his sister, firmly.

"You can't do that, you're a girl," her brother replies. Then he looks at me, realises what he has said and turns very pink.

"Battles are not nearly so much fun when you're in them," I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Faramir giving me a wry look. I decide to ignore him, and continue, "Have you got a sword yet, Borlas?"

"I am to have one for my thirteenth birthday," he says, proudly. "But I have already started learning with an old sword belonging to Master Tonnor." He adds as an aside, "Master Tonnor and Mistress Merilbes look after us when Adachanor is busy doing important stuff – like fighting hundreds of orcs."

I do my best to hide my smile at this artless description of Faramir (I also find the fond use of 'stepfather' in its familiar form moves me in a way that I was not expecting). "Ah, well, in that case, we had best start practising. After our picnic, we can find some garden canes – I think I saw some that the gardener had left in a corner."

And that fills up an afternoon quite easily. I feed the children honey cakes (they largely ignore the savoury food), then we stage a mock battle with hastily improvised swords. The children have great fun, alternating between copying my simple practice steps, and leathering each other in duels slightly too earnest to be described as make-believe (how it reminds me of Éomer and myself). And when they flop, panting, on the grass, Faramir and I stage our own make-believe bout. It is a slightly cautious affair, for I am wearing a dress, and seeing as our sticks have no guards, there is an ever present risk of rapping each other over the knuckles (in fact this happens to both of us rather painfully several times).

Faramir is a good swordsman, not that this comes as a great surprise. I have seen him fight before, after all. But it is still a slightly different business being on the receiving end of his technique. He is quite fast, his footwork light, and he has the advantage of both reach and strength over me. But I think I am rather faster, and perhaps technically the better of the two of us (I learned early on that the only thing that would give me an edge was knowing more tricks than my male opponents). The children cheer us on, and I discover much of their easy relationship with Faramir in how easily they laugh at our antics. To their glee and mine, I eventually force him onto the back foot, he trips over a tree root and lands on his arse. I delight in discovering he is equally happy to laugh along with us. I suppose I had never given it much thought, but it pleases me to find he is so comfortable and affectionate with the two of them.

"What will happen after your wedding, Adachanor?" asks Nimwen. Once again, the familiar address makes my insides knot with emotion, to realise they feel about Faramir the way Éomer and I felt about our uncle, Théoden. It makes me want to reach out and touch him, to draw him close into an embrace. I wonder whether Faramir senses any of this. If he does, he gives no sign, simply answering the little girl's question.

"Didn't Master Tonnor and Mistress Merilbes tell you? Now that the war is over and we have had time to rebuild the houses, we are all going back to Ithilien, to Emyn Arnen."

Nimwen nods. "I just wanted to make sure. Sometimes I'm not sure that things will be right again. I miss the trees. There aren't enough trees in the city."

Faramir smiles at her. "There will be a big house on the hill above the river, with lots of trees round it, and there I and my lady shall dwell, and your foster parents will have a house and a small holding in the hamlet near the foot of the hill. And you and Borlas shall spend most of your time with us in our house, for I no longer have to ride to war, and you are old enough to learn the ways of a great house. But you will be free to come and go, to visit your foster parents as often as you want. Once Borlas has his sword, he will spend time with the master at arms, learning to fight as well he can, and perhaps in a year or so, he will go as squire to some noble knight, to see more of the world."

"Can I be your squire?" Nimwen asks me.

"Well, I shall most certainly teach you the use of a sword, and how to ride if you wish. But both I and your step father are leaving our fighting days behind us. He will be the king's counsellor, and I shall help him to rule Ithilien. There is more to ruling that wielding a sword. I have to help make sure that the new laws in our new realm are fair to everyone. That means reading lots of papers – do you think you can help me with that?" Out of the corner of my eye I can see Faramir struggling very hard not to laugh at me.

"I know all my letters already, and I can write my name," the little girl responds with great seriousness.

After Merilbes has come to collect the children, Faramir and I stroll round the garden arm in arm.

"I like them, you know," I say to him.

"I could tell," he says. "I think you have found yourself a little shieldmaiden to mould in your image. Except that now you tell me you have reached a matronly, circumspect stage of your life and are to hang up your sword." He is now laughing openly, and I dig him in the ribs with my elbow.

"I don't know why you seem so surprised by this: I seem to remember that I promised you some time ago that I would not be leading an expeditionary force to reconquer the debatable lands."

"So you did," he replies, and then (with a slightly sheepish glance round the garden to make sure we are not being watched) pulls me into his arms and kisses me with a quiet, gentle passion.

"You know, all this attention to propriety is not good for my constitution. I fear I may be subject to some sort of fit of melancholic humours," he says with a grin. "I may have to take to my bed, except that it feels so cold and empty without you I fear it would bring scant comfort."

"And what is it, I wonder, that is in need of comfort? Your constitution, or something else entirely?" I reply.

At this he grins once more, saying, "If truth be known, mainly I fear for the state of the something else." Then he pulls me into another embrace and kisses me again.

~o~O~o~

For the first time since my return to Minas Tirith, I find myself alone with Lothíriel. She has come to my chambers to help me to dress for tonight's party, held by her sister-in-law, the Lady Galwien. I find myself rather looking forward to seeing Galwien again. Her quiet barb at Castamir's wife has certainly left me well disposed towards her. The party is, I gather, some sort of women's gathering, traditional before a wedding.

"Will you be at this gathering tonight?" I ask Lothíriel. In response she raises an eyebrow, her mouth twitching in an effort not to smile.

"Oh no," she says. "That would surely be most improper. For you see, it is to be hosted by married ladies of the city, so that they can prepare you for your marital duties. The intention is to ensure that the wedding night does not come as too much of a shock to your maidenly sensibilities. I, on the other hand, am expected to remain in blissful ignorance of the mysteries of the marriage bed for some time to come."

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Then both of us collapse into gales of laughter. For some moments we are both unable to speak. I find myself reduced to that state where I can scarcely breathe, tears running down my face, taking hiccuping gasps of air. Lothíriel passes me her handkerchief. I wish I could say that it was only to dab at my tears, but I fear it more likely she intends me to wipe my nose. Eventually I manage to speak.

"Should I try to blush, or would it be best simply to take a fit of the vapours and faint clean away?"

"Can you blush to order?" Lothíriel asks, apparently taking my first suggestion absolutely seriously, with a solemn curiosity which for a fleeting moment reminds me of Faramir.

"Alas, I fear not. Perhaps I can simply settle for hiding my face in my hands, maybe with a groan of horror at the fate which awaits me."

"Best not to over-egg the pudding," says Lothíriel sternly. The quirk of her cheek muscles suggests that her strict tone of voice is only for show. Then she adds, "I expect a full account of it afterwards."

"But what of your tender maidenly sensibilities?" I ask.

"I seem to remember that our first conversation together concerned my having to hold an injured soldier's manhood while he pissed in a chamberpot. I may still be able to claim the title of 'maidenly', but I have very little in the way of tender sensibilities left. Besides which, what interests me is not so much the mechanics of the act, for I am perfectly well acquainted with the theory if not the practice. No, I am intrigued to find out how many, and which, of our court ladies will admit to enjoying the ministrations of their husbands, and how many will suggest that you resign yourself to your fate in the hope that it will be over quickly. It is, I will admit, pure nosiness on my part."

I look over at her. Her face bears a look of impish mischief. It suddenly strikes me how well suited she and Éomer will be.

"Has my brother written to you yet? I made him promise that he would," I say.

The smile vanishes abruptly from her face. "No, no, I pray you have not. No, that would be most improper." Her words leave me puzzled beyond measure; the look on her face leaves me with a growing feeling of unease.

"But," I say, "I thought that you and he... That you liked one another."

"Please, do not speak of that. It was a young girl's moment of foolishness, made more so by the strain of a day terrible almost beyond endurance. I pray you, do not remind me of my improper behaviour – and rest assured that your brother did not in any way take advantage of my foolishness."

I am stunned. When last I talked to her of this, that afternoon in the garden, she seemed to hold the fondest of memories of her encounter with my brother. And indeed, had felt sufficiently strongly about it to have confided in Faramir, for it was he who told me that the man who had left her all aflutter was Éomer.

"But why is it so improper? You flirted with each other, perhaps, but where is the harm in that? And if he were to woo you, to ask your father if he could pay you suit?"

Lothíriel cuts off my questioning abruptly. "It is improper because I am betrothed to another. Please, let us talk no more of this."

Then my temper flares. Oh, my wretched, impetuous temper. I will not stop talking. I continue, mostly in desperation, but with an undercurrent of anger. "What? You kissed him and yet were betrothed to another man?"

Lothíriel sounds as angry as I am; she snaps back at me. "Of course not. What sort of hoyden do you take me for? Although the match had been mooted, no arrangements of any sort had been made back then."

"Then why did you not wait for my brother? Why accept this other man?"

Lothiriel's eyes flash with passion, and I sense an aggression which she holds back, but only barely. With a voice as cold as ice, she says, "Your brother? Would that be the brother who was so assiduous in his suit when he returned from Cormallen? Or would that be the brother who stood at the court functions drinking ale with his comrades? Would that be the brother who wrote to me at the first opportunity? Or would that be the brother from whom I have heard nary a word?"

Her anger feeds mine, but mine is tempered by a deep sadness, a sense of lost possibilities, not only for my brother but also for her. I try to argue my case. "But you said to me that you had had a glimpse of what a love match could be like, and that it would be hard to put up with an arranged marriage instead."

It would seem my words fall on barren ground. Lothíriel looks at me with utter disdain. "Young and foolish I may have been, but not so foolish as to think that strength of feeling alone can suffice when it is felt by only one of the people involved and not the other." She lets her breath out in a huff of irritation, then continues, "As for my betrothal – yes, it is an arranged marriage, but I have met my husband to be, been given the chance to come to know him, and been allowed to make my own decision as to whether or not to marry him. Herthedir is a noble and kind man. He fought bravely against the Corsairs raiding the coast and protected Minas Tirith from war on two fronts. He has never been anything other than gentle and considerate in his dealings with me. I have no doubt he will make a fine husband."

I cannot think what to say. It seems so wrong – how can one go into a marriage on such a basis? How can one lie with another where there is no passion? Lothíriel catches my gaze and returns it defiantly.

"I wish for neither your judgement on my actions, nor for your misplaced pity. I think that we have said all that needs to be said to one another. May you have a pleasant evening, cousin." She inclines her head slightly, turns on her heel and sweeps out of the door.

~o~O~o~

I find Faramir in his office. The ocean of untidy papers, the teetering cliffs and sea-stacks of books, all these are unchanged from my last visit. But unlike last time, when I came seeking him out with a mixture of concern and desire, this time I stride into his room aflame with anger. Faramir looks at my face and merely raises one dark eyebrow.

One look at his infuriatingly controlled demeanour, and I explode. "I can't believe it. Imrahil seemed so sensible, so kind, so well able to understand the cage, the circumscribed lot of women. And yet he is marrying his daughter off as if she was a fine brood mare and he only concerned with blood lines. How can he do this?"

"He can do this because this is how it has always been done in our country. He has, in fact, been much more understanding of Lothíriel's position than you are giving him credit for. She has been given the chance to meet and get to know Lord Herthedir, and throughout this, it has always been made abundantly clear to her that she could refuse his suit with no shame or dishonour reflecting on her. And have no doubt – my uncle will have been clear that the possibility of refusal was a genuine one; he will have exerted no subtle pressure on her." Faramir's voice is calm and even, but I can see that he is irritated by my anger: he sees me as unreasonable.

"But what of my brother? What of how she feels for him?"

Faramir gives me a sharp look. "And how does she feel for him? What has she said to you of this? For I know you well enough to know that you will have asked, bluntly and without regard for the consequences, where perhaps a wiser person might have held their tongue."

"A wiser person? A bloody Gondorian hypocrite, you mean." I am starting to get angry with Faramir as well as with his wretched relatives. "And why the hell didn't you tell me? How long have you known for?"

Faramir gives a sigh, then stands and walks over to me, taking me in his arms.

"Please, my bold shieldmaiden, do not let your anger get the better of you. And do not take it out on me. I didn't tell you because I only found out shortly before I left for Anórien that the betrothal had been formalised. And if you remember, we had other, rather more pressing matters taking up our attention then – what seemed to me like another bit of court gossip simply slipped my mind."

I try to get a grip on myself and take a few deep breaths, my face buried in his tunic. "But you know what happened after the battle – Lothíriel confided in you."

"Not a great deal – happened, that is. Just a conversation, which, admittedly, by Gondorian standards should not have taken place unchaperoned, and a kiss, which definitely ought not to have happened according to the views of those such as my aunt, but which I'm inclined to think was innocent enough. I put it down to them both being over-wrought in the aftermath of the battle and needing comfort. With the benefit of hindsight, it would seem that Lothíriel views it the same way. And, so too does your brother, if his lack of interest in pursuing the matter is any indication. Beloved, you appear to be the only person who reads it otherwise. You have constructed a castle in the air, an elaborate fairy tale with Lothi as the damsel in the tower and your brother as the prince who can rescue her. But she seems not to want to be rescued, and your brother does not seem disposed to do so in any case, so why not leave well alone?"

I cannot think of how to respond to this, so I remain, head tucked against his chest. Now the anger is subsiding I am starting to feel rather foolish.

"Of course, the irony of the situation is not lost on me. Your brother, who I gather from my cousins has something of a reputation with women, behaved himself impeccably, while I, whom Lothi has always teased about being the embodiment of virtue, too stiff and proper for my own good, spectacularly and dishonourably overstepped the bounds of propriety." He looks down at me with his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Or as I rather think you might prefer to phrase it: while your brother for once in his life kept his breeches laced, I, the 'Gondorian pansy', was fucking his sister morning, day and night."

I can't help it. I begin to laugh, snorting into his velvet surcoat, my shoulders shaking. I can hear the comforting rumble of his laughter joining mine. Eventually, we stop laughing, and I manage to look up at him. His eyes are serious once more – that shrewd, grey gaze that seems to delve right inside a person's soul. "Were you very angry with Lothi?" I nod, now feeling more than foolish: I feel rather ashamed. "Perhaps you should go and seek her out – I think you owe her an apology."

"You are right, as always, and for once I can't find it in myself to be annoyed with you, for I have behaved like an utter fool."

Faramir puts his hand under my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. "You mean it for the best, I know. You want everyone to have what we have. But I honestly think Lothi will be happy with Herthedir. He is a good man – brave, honourable and fair. And, let us be honest with one another – can you see your brother wanting for feminine company? But I should rather turn my attention to you, my lady, rather than the carryings on of our relatives." He runs his hand across my cheek, then dips his head towards me and kisses me, a slow, hot kiss that speaks of desire.

Then there is a knock at the door. "My Lord Steward?" I recognise the voice as that of Lord Turgon.

Faramir curses quietly, steps back from our embrace, and says, coolly, "Enter."

If Turgon is surprised to find me there, in breach of all Gondorian rules of etiquette, he is polite enough to show no sign. He bows to Faramir and says, "The King has sent me to bring word that the delegation from Harlond is here."

"Thank you, my Lord." Faramir turns back to me and takes my hand. "My Lady." He raises my hand, turning it so that he can press a kiss to the palm. This does appear to ruffle Turgon's composure: it would seem that this gesture is nearly as scandalous as if Turgon had caught us as we were moments earlier, Faramir's tongue entwined with mine, our bodies pressed together.

But then the moment is gone. Faramir bows to me, and ushers Turgon through the door, following him out into the passage beyond.

~o~O~o~

I swear that Acha has studied the finer points of Easterling torture techniques under a master of the trade. She is primping me to within an inch of my life, and, had I any secrets of grand strategic importance to divulge, I would spill them readily into her ear if only to be spared the comb and the lacing. Much as I complain loudly, there is a part of me, a part I shall not acknowledge on pain of death (probably death by comb) which is quite enjoying the process. Acha has brushed my hair and arranged it beautifully. And my housekeeper-in-waiting, Edith, has excelled herself in the preparation of my trousseau. She has had a fine underdress of soft linen made for me, and a kirtle of a deep green which will suit well the dark blue of the mantle Faramir gave to me. As Acha tightens the laces at the back of the gown, I finger the thick, rich layers of embroidery. Bands of gold thread in geometric patterns adorn the neck and cuffs, and the upper portion of the sleeves are worked with fantastical designs – horses and harts amid trees, beneath moon and stars. I am sure this is entirely intentional on the part of whichever woman came up with the design, combining the horses of the Mark and the moon of Ithilien. By thus working the symbols of both our houses into the very cloth of my marriage gown, the wise women will have sought to ensure good fortune for our marriage. I cast a glance at the girdle which Edith holds in her hands, ready to tie around my hips. I smile as I realise it too is delicately embroidered, with red clover and raspberry plants, and that these will nestle against my belly. Nothing, it would seem, is being left to chance.

As Acha works, I let my mind drift back to the aftermath of my row with Lothíriel. After seeing Faramir, I made my way to the Dol Amroth townhouse and apologised to his cousin. She accepted my apology graciously (in fact, that word might have been coined to describe the way she does almost everything). But I sensed a residual stiffness in her manner, and I wonder whether we will return to the easy friendship we shared in the last days of the war. However, I did manage to regain some ground the day after, when I was able to report back on the ladies' gathering.

I can't help but smile as I remember it: it was, if anything, even more excruciating than anticipated. The thing that was strangest was the mismatch between what was being said, and the twinkles in the eyes of some of the women which told an entirely different story. The general consensus for public consumption seemed to be that one got used to the activities of the marriage bed with time, and that if one's husband was sufficiently gentle, it could become passably pleasant. At that point in the conversation, I swear I saw several of the women hide smiles behind their sleeves. Had I known them well enough, and had I been able to talk to them in private, I expect they would have glossed "passably pleasant" in rather different ways. The sad thing, however, was those women who sat and nodded in agreement, like Arwen's hand-maiden Miriel. Or, worse, said that they simply found it bearable, but that at least once one's husband had begot the heir and the spare, he would then turn to a succession of mistresses and leave one in peace.

Miriel's presence reminded me that the evening could have been more excruciating still. Thank the heavens I was at least spared the presence of Arwen: she, apparently, had said it was clearly a celebration according to the customs of mortals, and that she would be out of place, though she graciously invited me to take my midday meal with her the following day.

And thank the gods too for Galwien. I suspect that Imrahil might have mentioned to his sons why there was quite such a precipitate rush to see me safely married according to the customs of the Mark. Certainly, they were all present at the wedding in Edoras, and must have known that thereafter, Faramir and I openly shared a bed chamber as husband and wife. And it seemed as if Elphir had mentioned this to his wife. As she accompanied me back to my chambers in the palace, Galwien had grinned broadly, and laughingly dismissed the evening's entertainment for the travesty it was, saying that she thought lying with her husband was the greatest sport to be had, daytime or night, and broadly hinting that furthermore she thought this opinion would come as no great surprise to me. She even went so far as to engage in various speculations about the apparently legendary (at least, within Gondorian legends) stamina of the Eldar, adding with a raise of her delicate eyebrows that she had heard suggestions that this was yet another respect in which the blood of the Eldar ran true in the veins of Imrahil and his kin. Most fortunately for the women who were lucky enough to wed them, she had added. I can't help but grin at the memory of this particular line of thought; it would certainly explain certain things about my husband that I find more than passing pleasant.

"A penny for your thoughts. They seem to amuse you greatly." My wandering thoughts are interrupted by Edith.

"I was just remembering the gathering which was held in my honour a few days ago, where the married ladies of Minas Tirith sought to prepare me for my marriage bed, so it wouldn't come as too much of a shock to me." I make a desperate effort to keep a straight face.

Acha gives a gasp of surprise. "But you and the Prince – you are already wed. I saw you wed in Edoras."

"Aye, according to our customs, and my husband is more than happy to abide by those customs. But for the people of Gondor – they considered that to be merely my betrothal, and... Well, their customs are rather stuffier than ours." And at this point, I give up the doomed struggle and let myself laugh out loud.

"Well, my lady," says Edith, with a twinkle, "If thoughts of your marriage bed can make you smile that broadly, it's just as well I have had this prepared."

And, with a flourish, she reaches into the cedar chest and produces the flimsiest, most diaphanous nightgown I have ever seen. The thing is near transparent as glass. I find myself clapping my hands in delight.

"Oh my, that will shock the Gondorian ladies of the chamber! I don't think they expect me to look forward to enjoying my wedding night."

"Well, before you get too carried away, my lady, I should also point out..." Here, Edith purses her lips, "That the lady Miriel brought round a robe to wear over your nightdress, as a present from her family's house. I think she hopes to curry favour with you, as wife of the Steward. I fear she may have missed her mark with this one."

Edith now holds out a voluminous red velvet robe, richly but to my eye rather tastelessly embroidered. The folds of fabric stand stiffly, almost as if they need no support from a frail human body.

"Well," says Acha thoughtfully, "If ever there was a garment designed to make your husband wish to rip it from your body, that's it! Though not in the way usually meant on a wedding night."

"Oh my..." My voice trails away. "And she is one of the ladies appointed to accompany me from the dinner to my bedchamber and to help me prepare. Oh Béma – there's no way out of wearing it."

Edith gives a warm chuckle. "If the way I've seen Lord Faramir look at you is any indication, my lady, I shouldn't worry over much. You're not going to be wearing it for long."

~o~O~o~

"You look every bit Éomer King's sister, and beautiful beyond the words of the bards. Far too good for a Gondorian Steward, if you ask me." Elfhelm winks, then offers me his arm. He leads me into the antechamber where my husband (or perhaps that should be husband to be) is waiting.

Faramir looks at me, and his face breaks into a huge smile. My near death by comb and lacing was well worth it for that smile. I break free from Elfhelm, and rush across the room to him. He takes me by both hands and stands, dumb struck. I am similarly at a loss for words. Fortunately for the patience of the assembly in the grand chamber of the Kings through the great oaken doors, Elfhelm breaks the spell.

"The two of you want to watch out. Keep looking at one another like that and the court may begin to suspect that this is more than an arranged marriage to cement the Oath of Eorl." He strides up to us and claps Faramir on the back, which seems to bring my beloved to his senses.

The Warden of the Keys watches this performance with a slightly bemused expression. Sensing that we are not about to do anything too outrageous, he nods to the two attendants, who open the great doors. He marches into the great hall, and announces in a loud voice that Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, seeks leave to present his betrothed, Éowyn Eomundsdōhtor, sister of the King of Rohan, to King Elessar, and to petition the King to join them in marriage.

I had thought I would find the pomp of the occasion either ridiculous or overwhelming, but to my surprise, my main feeling is one of relief: relief that we have reached this final hurdle, and once it is out of the way, everyone will accept us as husband and wife. There will be no more creeping down corridors, no more sneers from Castamir and his esteemed and joyous lady. But this is not a moment to dwell on the back-stabbing of the court (even if this ceremony is largely for their benefit). Faramir smiles at me, and in this moment, that is my whole world. Together, we advance between the crowds of nobles at either side of the hall, my hand on his arm, his hand resting on top of mine. We reach the steps up to the dais, where Aragorn and Arwen sit side by side in their thrones. As I have been instructed, I take my hand from Faramir's arm.

Faramir bows low, and I perform a courtesy (by my standards, an unusually graceful one, I feel: I am quite pleased with myself).

Aragorn stands and steps forward to greet us. The actual ceremony is quite short, but to my surprise, he prefaces it by a short speech. He tells of my husband's valiant years of service, in Ithilien, holding the shadow at bay, and of his bravery in buying vital time for the city before the siege by trying to hold the crossing at Osgiliath against the enemy. He speaks of his efforts to defend his men to the last, bringing up the rearguard in the retreat, and how his struggle almost cost him his life. And he speaks warmly of Faramir's service in guiding the city through the last, dark days before victory was won against the odds, and of his invaluable help in advising the King in how best to rebuild Gondor and restore her to her glory.

Then he amazes me by turning to me, an affectionate smile on his face. He speaks to the hall at large, but his eyes meet mine, as he offers thanks to me and my countrymen for riding to the aid of Gondor in her darkest hour, and preventing the fall of the city. And he describes my fight with the Witch King, lauding the moment when I slew him as the turning point in the battle. For a moment, a dark cloud comes over me, and I feel once more a stabbing cold in my right arm, my sword arm. But Aragorn's gaze holds me, reminding me of how he drew me back from the shadow after the battle, and the dark cloud passes.

Then, in a ringing voice, he says: "Hear, oh Lords of Gondor. The Steward, Faramir son of Denethor, comes to ask for the hand of the Lady Éowyn. Faramir, is it your will, freely chosen, that you should marry the Lady Éowyn?"

"It is, my liege lord." Faramir's voice echoes round the hall, deep, confident, totally without doubt.

"Lady Eowyn of Rohan, is it your will, freely chosen, that you should marry the Lord Faramir?"

"It is, my liege lord." My voice is as loud as Faramir's.

Aragorn takes our hands and joins them. "Behold, Faramir and Éowyn, from this day forth you shall be husband and wife."

~o~O~o~

By the time the maids have finished preparing my night attire, I feel as if I am a gift wrapped for Yuletide. Miriel presses a hand gently on my shoulder and whispers to me.

"It will be fine, dear lady. Nerves are normal, but assuredly the prince will be gentle and most solicitous."

Over her shoulder I see Galwien mouthing "most solicitous" with a positively wicked grin on her lips, and it is all I can do not to burst into laughter. Finally, with much giggling, the maids and women attending me leave.

I perch on the edge of the bed, then as the feeling of anticipation builds, I get up and start to pace to and fro. Then I start to laugh as it occurs to me that I am doing a pretty good impression of a nervous bride. I doubt that it can be more than a short space of time, but it feels like a whole candlemark has passed before finally I hear the sounds of male voices in the corridor, carrying the unmistakable note of those who are deep in their cups. Among them I can make out Amrothos' voice. I should have guessed he would be among the most ribald of the company. I cannot quite make out Faramir's words in reply, but I recognise the tone all too well: it is the tone he uses for cutting insolent rank and file soldiers down to size, albeit in this instance, delivered with a note of humour to soften the blow. I don't hear Amrothos again.

Finally the chamber door opens, and Faramir enters, though at the moment his attention seems to be more taken with the men outside the door. One comment carries clearly above the general hubbub: "May your arrows find their mark, oh captain of archers."

My husband raises an eyebrow and sketches just the hint of an ironic bow before shutting the door firmly in their faces. Outside the door the merry band break into a raucous and somewhat off-key song – in so far as I can make out the words, off-key in more senses than one. Gradually, their carousing peters out as they finally make their way back down the passage.

Faramir rests his head on the door and gives a theatrical groan. "I think great things are expected of me tonight."

"I am assured, though, that you will be gentle and most solicitous." I try my best to imitate Miriel's voice. Faramir bursts out laughing, then turns to look at me.

"Good mercy of the Valar, what are you wearing?"

"That's a fine way to greet your bride," I say. I try to affect a hurt expression, but in vain: within moments, I too am laughing. "It is a present from the family of one of the court worthies – Lady Miriel, Lord Turgon's daughter. I think she seeks our good graces and political favour."

"And she thinks this will help? Valar preserve us!" With a broad smile, he reaches out to grab my hand. He pulls me in to him, and presses a soft kiss to my lips. Wrapping his arms around me, he whispers in my ear.

"This last week has been torture – to have you so close and yet unable to bed you."

Now it is my turn to laugh – the wait must indeed have affected my husband, for him to be so uncharacteristically forthright. I tease him, "So, my love, do you want to unwrap me delicately and with tender care from my layers of finery, as befits a blushing, maidenly bride. Or shall we both take our clothes off as quickly as we can and set to it?"

"It is your wedding night, min leoflic. Which would you prefer?" His eyes are sparkling with mirth and lust.

"Take your clothes off," I say, and he obediently shrugs off his tunic and starts to untuck his shirt, looking at me with those grey eyes which have become dark.

"Have I told you, Éowyn, the effect your words have?" Faramir's hands have stilled, and his face has become intent, focussed. "When you order me to strip, I am near undone with want." I raise my eyebrows in response to this admission, and with a half smile he continues, "That night when first you told me to take off my braies and get into your bed completely naked, I came close to spending myself on the spot just at your words, before I had even touched you."

I swallow hard. I can feel my pulse thudding in the swelling flesh between my legs, the growing wetness there. I feel an almost irresistible urge to say, 'Forget undressing', then throw myself upon the bed, spread my legs and urge him to take me there and then with his breeches round his knees. Instead, I manage to speak, though my voice wavers slightly.

"I can encourage as well as command. Let me lead by example." I finally finish unfastening the absurd robe and let it fall to my feet.

Now it is Faramir's turn – he looks stunned, and I see, as if through his eyes, the sight I glimpsed in the mirror as the maids dressed me: the sheer silk, near transparent, the shape of my body outlined, shadows of my nipples, my belly button, the triangle of curls below, half visible, tantalisingly half hidden.

"Ah, Elbereth, what did I do to deserve so fair a wife?" His voice is little more than a murmur of breath. He pulls his shirt over his head, the muscles beneath his skin moving as he stretches his arms up. I watch every movement as he unfastens his belt and lets it fall to the ground. Then he starts to undo the laces on his breeches. His gaze remains fixed on me.

"Beautiful as the sight is, I want to feel your skin against mine, not take you half clothed, not tonight," he whispers. "I pray you, take off the rest of your garments."

With a nod, I unlace the front of the bodice and let the gauzy material drift to the ground, feeling the breath of night air on my skin. Faramir looks at me with an expression of wonder, almost as if this were indeed the first time. Alas at this point, the mood is interrupted, for my husband realises he should have taken his boots off first before attempting to undo his breeches. He hops awkwardly, cloth bundled round his knees, his cock already fully stiff and brushing his stomach. Then we catch one another's eyes and start to laugh.

"I see I must take charge once more," I say, and step towards him. I place my hand on his chest and push him back so he sits upon the bed, then kneel at his feet. As I tug at his boots, it occurs to me what a strange position this is, to kneel naked at his feet, and I wonder that I should find it not disturbing, but rather arousing. Then it comes to me that I can kneel naked before him because he would do the same for me in an instant – that there is no subservience here, but rather an equal offering of all we have to each other.

Boots thrown to one side, I pull off his breeches and let them fall to the floor too. Faramir reaches out his hands and draws me to my feet. I step astride his legs, and he lets go, only to slide his hands round my hips. The callouses on his hands send sparks across my skin as I let him pull me closer. Taking hold of his shoulders, I ease myself down onto him. There is a moment of tantalising anticipation as I feel his cock against my entrance, then I slide down upon him, enveloping him, feeling him fill me.

"Bema, that feels good." I press my lips against his hair, whispering into his ear. Then he pushes his hips up against me, burying himself still deeper. Taking his time, he makes long, slow thrusts within me. I find myself urging him on. "Oh yes, oh fuck, yes..."

Faramir tries to roll both of us over, and somehow in the process slips out from within me. He looks down on me, face half curtained by his hair, and grins. "Not the most polished attempt at that manoeuvre I have ever carried out," he says ruefully, then adds, "I must be overcome by the sense of occasion."

I laugh, and stroke his cheek. "Ah, but there is no cause for concern. It simply means I get to have that lovely sensation of your cock sliding all the way inside me all over again."

Faramir whispers, "Like this?" He dutifully illustrates his point.

"Oh gods, yes, yes, like that." And I pull his body against me, further inside me, lifting my hips off the bed. Together we settle into a rhythm, long and slow to start with, gradually building in tempo until I half wonder if our efforts will shift the bed across the room. Sensing that Faramir is near, I slip my hand between us and with a few strokes of my fingers I lose myself completely, only just enough awareness to register him spill himself within me.

In the aftermath, Faramir lies on top of me, his head on my shoulder. I can feel his cock resting where it has slipped from within me, lying heavy and sticky against my thigh. His limbs are tangled with mine, and his face bears a look of sated happiness.

"I love the noises you make, the look on your face when you reach your greatest pleasure," he murmurs, then adds, "That makes that torturous week of waiting worth it."

I cannot find the words to say anything in reply, so I content myself by humming appreciatively and letting my palms slide across the muscles of his arse. It is, I think to myself, a very shapely arse.

"Mmm, that feels nice," Faramir mutters. "But if you're hoping for more, you'll have to wait a while. You have exhausted me."

I can't help myself: I give a snort of laughter, and bring my hands back up the line of his spine, his skin now damp with sweat, then let them drift across his shoulder blades. Idly, I trace the muscles of his arm with my finger tips. He shifts slightly, and I feel the faint trickle of his seed on the inside of my thigh. Faramir kisses my skin, then rolls onto one side. I reach for his discarded shirt and wipe myself. He grins, and I guess he is recalling our early days and nights together.

"More gossip for the laundry maids," he says, wryly.

I glance down, first at the shirt which I drop over the edge of the bed, then at the sheet, slightly damp, but otherwise unstained. "I fear we may well supply gossip for the laundry maids, but not in the way you are thinking," I say, suddenly serious, remembering Lothíriel's comments about girls being disgraced on their wedding nights. "I think tomorrow the gossip may be occasioned by the lack of marks rather than their presence."

Faramir wriggles across the mattress, hanging over the edge of the bed for a moment and fumbling in the heap of clothes there. To my surprise, he unsheathes his dress dagger. Before I can work out what he is up to, he draws the blade swiftly across the heel of his hand, nicking the skin slightly, then smears his own blood across the appropriate part of the bed linen.

"My uncle explained to me many years ago that a gentleman should know what to do in this eventuality," he says, smiling at me.

"Increasingly, I am coming to realise that there is a big gap between the behaviour you Gondorians pronounce in public to be acceptable, and the behaviour you actually engage in within the privacy of your chambers."

"Quite so," says Faramir, adding, "And may I be the first to applaud your growing sense of diplomacy in abjuring the use of the word 'hypocrisy'."

I pick up a linen cloth from the tray on the table beneath the window, and bring it to him to hold against the wound until it stops bleeding, then draw him into the bed with me, and pull the covers over both of us. Faramir puts his arms round me and I pull his head onto my bosom, stroking his hair, filled with a quiet joy at the thought that we will do this for the rest of our days together.

Thanks as usual to my wonderful beta, Lady Peter, for her really thoughtful comments, and to Wheelrider for picking up various typos, and to everyone on the Garden of Ithilien site for encouragement. Thanks also to Lasgalendil for coming up with an Elvish word for "stepfather" (in fact a range of them for me to choose from). And also belated thanks to Borys who gave me the idea (in the last chapter) for having Elfhelm set two rivals to guard Rustwen, thus ensuring no-one got up to any hanky-panky!

Thanks also to my lovely reviewers. I've replied to most of you by PM, but thanks to the guest reviewer (non-logged in) for saying you didn't mind the wait between chapters – I always worry a bit that my readers will get frustrated with the wait and stop reading, so it's very good to get some reassurance.

AN: For the gown, I drew upon various painters – Giotto, Boticelli, Ucello, Van Eyck. The gold bands of embroidery were stolen from one of the figures in the background of Giotto's painting of St. Joachim and St. Anne's kiss before the gates of Jerusalem, and I got the idea for the embroidered sleeves from paintings by Veneziano, Piero della Francesca and Van der Weyden. (As always, I'm adopting a shamelessly mix-and-match approach with historical periods, and stealing whatever takes my fancy: my defence, as always, is that I'm convinced Tolkien did this too).

Raspberry leaves and red clover are herbs traditionally believed to enhance fertility.

The hideous red night gown is left to the reader's imagination.

And yes, I am evil, setting things up to be so complicated for Lothíriel and Éomer. It will make the sequel(s) so much more fun to write.

Apologies for my slow updating, but better slow and (hopefully) good than rushed and rubbish. And if you are getting withdrawal symptoms between chapters, may I recommend to you a couple of stories by Sian22? Captains and Pawns is the story of Faramir's life, from childhood through to meeting Éowyn in the Houses of Healing. And Hot Spring is a piece of shameless (and utterly wonderful) smut which she wrote for my birthday. It's also extremely clever: she takes most of the hackneyed phrases I deliberately parodied in Surrender to the Steward and reclaims them so that they genuinely work as erotic language! That's what I call setting yourself (and succeeding at) a writing challenge. And on the subject of shameless smut, I have written an AU one-shot, A tight place, which you may like.