a/n: Sorry…lost track of time. School an' all…been sick, too. Once again, thank you all for your wonderful reviews!

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Chapter Eight

Of course Eowyn felt for him. The Lady Eowyn I have known since our days in the Houses of Healing is caring, and considerate and would never forget the Halflings that saved her life and gave her comfort on Pelennor Fields and in the dark hours she was confined to the Houses of Healing; she loves them dearly, and when Peregrin Took met her on his way out of the guesthouse it all fell apart.

His eyes were filled with painful tears, and he dragged the sleeve of his favorite green jacket across them to clear his vision as he made his way down the steps, but Pippin did not see the figure before him going up to her own room. Pippin smacked into Eowyn's knees and fell back onto the steps.

"Peregrin Took, I am so sorry!" she cried, and fell to her knees before him, taking his face in her hands to examine any injuries she may have caused. Pippin blinked several times and squinted at her, then let out a long sigh and looked away. Eowyn knitted her brows. "Peregrin, are you crying?"

"Why her when he has you?" the hobbit murmured the words he should have taken into consideration, and looked into the pale beauty of my Lady's face. "I am alright, Lady Eowyn. Are you?"

"Of course I am all right, it was I who smacked into you!" Eowyn narrowed her eyes as if somehow she could peer into Pippin's watery gaze and read it without him speaking, but found nothing, so she inquired gently once more, "Peregrin why are you crying?"

The hobbit sniffed loudly and dragged a sleeve across his eyes, averting his gaze as he mumbled, "Do you really want to hear it? It's just a tragic tale featuring the misfortunes of a Took."

"Tell me and perhaps it will ease your heart," she encouraged him, and let her hands rest on his shoulders; covered in green material of his jacket. "Tell me what it is…have I done something wrong? Is Frodo ill? Did Sam undercook something – "

"Diamond."

Eowyn watched Pippin's face crumbled again, and his inability to speak told her all she needed to know. She brought her gaze to the steps for a moment while Pippin shuddered in a few silent sobs, and then looked back up to him. "It cannot be for good, Peregrin, however severe this quarrel is you may be having. Diamond is sweet and adores you – "

"No," he muttered bitterly, glancing over his shoulder. Pippin waited a long while before he said his next words, and it was probably because of his own disbelief. However, it was the truth, to some point. "She…she tells me she fell in love with another. A soldier that kissed her."

Eowyn laughed and pulled his pale, tear streaked face to meet hers. "Oh, Peregrin, it cannot be more than angry words in a quarrel. Did she give you a name?" Pippin stared at her blankly, and when he did not respond Eowyn continued in a light voice, "You see? No name was given, that simply means this soldier does not exist – "

"Faramir."

Eowyn frowned. "Faramir? What of him…?"

"It is Faramir, Lady Eowyn." Pippin sighed in resignation and pulled away from her soft hands, trotting down the stairs lightly on his bare feet. "He stole Diamond from me and now I'll never have her back." When he reached the bottom of the stairs he turned back to the shocked Eowyn, whose words remained trapped in her throat, and said quietly, "I'm sorry to tell you…because you and he are such good friends." Pippin shrugged. "But sometimes you can't trust even your friends."

"Surely there is a mistake…"

"Ask him." Pippin said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Ask Faramir what happened the night of the banquet. He will tell you."  The hobbit braced himself against a gust of strong wind that swept through the city and plowed around the guesthouse, sending Eowyn's abundant gold hair whipping behind her. She said nothing as she watched his little form disappear behind the corner of the stops and buildings around their staying quarters, and Eowyn lowered herself to sit on the edge of the step.

It made no sense, until Eowyn could recall the night before my brother's quarters were burned to the ground when I had spoken of the girl. The White Lady of Rohan is compassionate, and she has always looked for the best in people, but the thought of a friend turning upon a friend was unacceptable. Eowyn let her chin rest on her hands and thought of Pippin.

--- --- ---

Apparently rumor travels like wind in a tunnel around my city, especially when it concerns the well being of one of the most famous figures in all of our history. The 'Prince of the Halflings' he was once known, and since then his title has continued to climb, as does his favor with all the people of Minas Tirith.

I noticed something different when I was dining with the King, the Queen and the Steward -- the servants seemed to be giving me filthy looks. Angry looks. I tried not to notice, but earlier in the meal when a lady servant accidentally spilled hot spiced wine into my lap I became suspicious (in between my hisses and repressed curses of pain. I would have preferred scalding liquid anywhere else than there).

"Have either of you thought of a name?" Boromir asked when we had finished eating, and Aragorn slipped an arm around Arwen's thin shoulders, grinning in delight. "Shall I take that as a yes?"

"Eldarion, we thought to be fitting for his lineage and what blood runs in his veins." The King lightly kissed his queen's temple and settled back into his chair, still smiling absently and quietly tapping his fork against his plate in deep thought. "What more could I ask for?"

I had not seen my King happier, not at his wedding, not at his crowning, not at the very edge of victory itself, and I could not help but let a grin escape again. The chef of the King's house entered humbly with his palms pressed together and his head bowed. Aragorn ushered him to the table.

"That was a fantastic feast," he complimented, looking to his wife, my brother and myself as he spoke. "Was it not?"

"You are singularly talented, my good man," Arwen said softly, and the chef bowed at the waist with his ears turning bright pink at the tips – I assumed his reaction was much like mine whenever the Queen graced me with a smile, and only felt pity for him. How could any man stand such beauty?

"My Lady," he acknowledged as he bowed, and looked from one of us to the other. "May I inquire as to why the King of the Mark and the White Lady have not joined you? And where are the wee Halflings, My lords and Lady? I do miss their company and enthusiasm."

"Oh, the King of the Mark sends his apologies for not coming this eve," I said good naturedly as I looked up to the chef from my seat, relaxing against the neatly polished wood beneath me. "It seems the Lady Eowyn is ill this night, and Eomer King stayed behind to keep her company."

"Ah. Well send my condolences, won't you, Captain?" There was nothing friendly in the chef's tone, but I seemed to be the only one picking it up. He regarded me quietly a moment while my brother and the King chattered endlessly – something about a sword that had been welded at a ninety degree angle…for some reason this was hilarious -, and something in his eyes changed. "Have you heard from the Halflings? Are they ill as well?"

"I would imagine so." I replied. "But I do not entirely know."

"I thought you would know where the King's Halfling guests would be most of all." The Chef said. "Seeing as how you are such good friends with the youngest perian, Mr. Took." He bowed respectfully to all of us and departed, leaving me very confused. Boromir and Aragorn continued laughing over the sword incident while I stroked my chin in thought – what was the meaning of all this subtle hostility I was sensing? I could not have even pulled a random clue from the night sky at that point.

"Captain Faramir, do you know how the Lady Eowyn fares?" Arwen asked me from somewhere, and her voice goaded me back from my thoughts. I looked at her directly, and she seemed surprised – I seldom did that. "I have not heard from anyone first hand."

"I am as ignorant as you, my queen. I have not seen her since yesterday."

"Will you see her later tonight?"

"I intend to pay her a visit after dinner, Lady Arwen." I replied distantly, only meeting her eyes when the chef and his workers had finally left. "Is there a message you would like me to give to her?"

"Yes, tell her I hope she is well soon, and that I hope to see her when she is. I miss our conversations." Arwen smiled and swept her dark tresses from her moon pale features; the deep blue of her eyes searched my face and saw something that the others did not. "Is something troubling you, Faramir?"

I paused and stared at her stupidly, my voice hovering in my throat as the servants filtered in to refill our goblets. I finally smiled at her as the servant girl poured the wine. "No, M'Lady – " I was cut off by another liquid, this time freezing cold wine, splattering into my lap and soaking my pants on the same spot I spoke of earlier. I yelped again, helplessly trying to move away from the spill, despite the impossibility of it. The girl began apologizing profusely.

"My Lord, forgive me! I – I suppose I'm nervous, I could barely hold the bottle…" she set the pitcher down and stood by goblet up again, daring to look me in the eyes and inquire softly, "How fares Master Peregrin, Captain? Do you know?"

"What?!" I was utterly confused and had no time to respond to her slightly disrespectful tone, and when Boromir took the towel and began mopping up the moisture on my lap I smacked his hand away. "Brother, please, do not trouble yourself."

Aragorn ignored the girls bustling around me to clean the mess up and leaned forward with his brows knit in curiosity. "Is that not twice in one night, Faramir?"

"I…I…" My concentration at the moment was on getting the cold wetness away from myself, so I think Aragorn forgave my stupid stammering. "Yes, I think so, yes…"

"That will be all, thank you." Arwen said to the servants as they began to scurry away once more, bowing out respectfully. The queen turned to her husband and bent her head as she whispered, "Their fingers seem to become very slick when serving your Captain."

"So I have noticed." Aragorn reached for his goblet and drained the last of his wine. After a moment of silent thought he said to my brother, "I supposed all of this means you will be moving back into the Citadel?"

"I intend to. There is less chance of another ash pile." Boromir drummed his fingers against the wood surface of the table with one hand, and stroked his beard with the other like he always did when slightly agitated      with something that tormented the back of his mind. "Still. Still, I rather enjoyed living in the city. It pulled my mind from…things…" He shrugged and grinned at the King. "You know, pressures and such."

"Well if you would rather set up another home other than the Citadel it would be no trouble." Aragorn told him, gesturing with his hand. "Of course there would have to be guards posted all hours round…we cannot have a repeat –"

"No, thank you, I think my father's house will do." Boromir straightened in his chair and I saw the glint of still lingering grief in his eyes. Subtly I reached over and squeezed his arm in shielded comfort and affection, but he did not acknowledge me. "I cannot avoid my title forever."

"The choice is yours, my friend."

In the moments following the small conversation the Steward and the King held, Arwen stood to leave, delicately moving her lavender skirts and drapes of material from the way of her feet. "Gentlemen, I must retire." She said softly, and smiled at us so we almost forgot to politely stand at her departure.

"Have we completely bored you, dearest?" Aragorn asked her in a gentle tone, and Arwen laughed merrily at his doubt; she sent a noticeable glow of mirth around our King, and his eyes lit up to send me an image of what he must have been upon first discovering who was to be the love of his life. Oh, I sympathized with him.

"No, not at all, my lords, I am weary. It has been a long and confusing two days." Arwen's hair strayed behind her as she began to depart, and once again mesmerized Aragorn into silence until she turned back abruptly, yet gracefully, and inquired, "Oh – Lord Boromir, did you ever catch the one responsible for the ruin of your home?"

Boromir shook his head and planted one hand at his side and the other he used to run through his hair wearily, forgetting he was in the presence of a Lady and losing his respectful stance. "No, my lady, he continues to run free in our streets. I have yet to catch him."

Arwen nodded at this, and turned to Aragorn with her brows lifted in silent query – probably as to why he had been sitting in a jail cell the day before because she had not yet received an answer. Aragorn tenderly kissed her forehead and stooped to look into her eyes. "I promise to explain all of this to you, Arwen. I promise you that."

Arwen glanced over at Boromir with a knowing shade in her gaze, and she even smiled. "I am beginning to make sense of it, my Lord. But I will await that explanation." She bid us all goodnight one last time before leaving the dining hall as gracefully and silently as water gliding over stones. Aragorn cracked a wide smile as he watched her go, and looked back to the two.

"Tell me, is it hazardous to one's health to have known a woman for most their life, married her and still be sick with love?" Aragorn asked us helplessly, and while Boromir nodded vigorously, I shook my head and folded my arms across my chest. The King ignored my brother and directed his eyes at me. "You do not think so, Faramir?"

"What could be healthier?"

Boromir snorted and lightly punched my shoulder. "Do not pay mind to him, Aragorn, he is in a similar place as you and so far he has lost consciousness several times because of it. With all due respect," Boromir gave a wry smile and fingered the hilt of his sword at his hip. "You need a good duel to put your mind back on proper course."

I looked at my brother in astonishment. "You wore your sword to dinner with a lady present? Boromir!"

He looked at me quizzically, and gestured to my own belt. "You did as well." I glanced at my hip, saw he was right, and made an 'o' with my mouth, while Aragorn cleared his throat and fruitlessly positioned his hands on Anduril's hilt as if to conceal it with just his hands.

"Well," Aragorn said after a moment, probably feeling as foolish as we did. "My captains, we are officially rude."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"We are."

Boromir seemed satisfied with this and waved for Aragorn and myself to follow him. "Shall we?" The Steward caught the King glancing over his shoulder to where his queen had retired for the night, and I saw him arch a brow in sympathy. To save his friend from having to turn him down, Boromir said, "On second thought, I am truly done in, Aragorn." The King looked at Boromir and grinned.

"Tomorrow, then?"

Boromir bowed low at the waist and even saluted. "We will be there, my King."

Aragorn reached out and shook my brother's hand firmly, and then mine. "Goodnight, Steward. Captain." He smiled at us and swiftly turned on his heel, exiting the hall. Boromir released the hilt of his sword and instead grabbed my arm to guide me out of the room with that affectionately arrogant authority he has always held over my head.

"It is good to see him back in high spirits," He told me. "But our plan fell through. The Took runs loose."

"Aye, he does." We began to cross the lengthy lawn of the Citadel's court and Boromir seemed restless beside me, muttering to himself and continuing to curl his fingers around the hilt of his blade over and over again – something was troubling him. "Boromir."

"Hmm."

"What is the matter?"

Boromir stopped walking and turned to look me over, skeptically – I once again felt like the ten year old being challenged by the fifteen year old Boromir; just beginning to fill out with lanky frame and wielding the same sword he held now. "The matter?"

"Yes."

Boromir slid his sword from its sheath and hit me affectionately on the side of the head with it. "I think your faith in my ability to still beat you in a duel is lacking somewhat." I laughed wryly and folded my arms across my chest, my eyes following the tip of his weapon as he trailed it around in the air.

"Well…your new position requires you to sit a lot."

"Faramir…"

"And you are not getting younger, that is for certain…"

"The line, Faramir, you are crossing it."

I arched a brow and then frowned, taking a few steps closer to peer levelly at my brother's hairline, and then released a horrified gasp. "Boromir! A…a grey hair!" That was it. He immediately swung his sword upward in an arch and I drew my own blade in time to counter his attack. Well, I admit it; Boromir certainly had lost none of his skill, strength and valor (and I had made the bit up about the grey hair…if Boromir was graying, then Eowyn was a wench). He chopped away at my blade and sliced and slashed so mercilessly that if he had not been my brother I might have feared him.

When at first I was able to take one offensive chance and slap the flat of his blade with mine he was knocked back a few paces, and I had the upper hand – for approximately five seconds before he regained control and bore down on me as if I were Sauron himself. My sword was crashed and clanked this way and that, until finally Boromir shoved my blade down so hard that I lost my footing and fell flat on my back; sword still in hand, but my attempt to seem flawless was foiled.

The tip of his sword lingered at my throat, tickling my flesh and daring me to continue. Boromir's voice was deep and taunting. "Come Faramir. Surrender." I threw my head back down into the earth to avoid the point of his weapon and brought my own up just as quickly, sending a rain of sparks as my sword met his down upon the grass where I had lay. Boromir was caught off guard and his blade left his bare fingers – unfortunately in all of my folly I had lost a grip on my attack and my weapon also went flying several feet away.

We stared at one another in a silent stand off, both weaponless, and both having been beat down by my attack. Then I did something very stupid. I curled myself off of the grassy lawn and wrapped my arms around Boromir's knees in a great bear hug and brought us both to the ground in a heap of flailing arms and legs and indignant shouts.

"Faramir are you mad?" Boromir demanded of his little brother – I now had him pinned firmly down in the soft earth with my knees on his thighs and my hands on his elbows; grinning like an idiot. It was rare that I had the chance of nailing my brother in one of our skirmishes, and I was very proud of myself, but Boromir did not let it last long. My brother, just before I began my victory speech, seized me by the arms and thrust to the left, making a neat flip and completely switching our positions.

"That was cheating," I said sourly, struggling beneath the weight of my brother to at least free an arm. "I had you – "

"And now I have you," Boromir commented, and I wanted to slap that smirk off of his face. "Cheating or no, you fell off your guard," He added dangerously to infuriate me further, "Little brother."

"Oh, get off."

"Only if you surrender."

"You are a big fool, now get off of me." I growled, aware that I was not going to get out of this one without declaring Boromir a superior fighter than I, but I did not want to give up so easily. "Boromir -!"

"Oh, all right," Boromir shifted his weight so that he could hold me down without using all of his effort and looked up pointedly. "I am just going to let you get away with that little brawl you tried to pick with me earlier, do you think?"

I smirked back, and sealed my fate. "You cannot accept the truth, brother?"

Boromir lifted his hand from my left arm, and I drew my newly freed appendage to my body as if it were my child – I knew I would need it very soon. "The truth? Would you like to repeat the truth, Faramir?" Boromir immediately ploughed his hand into my ribcage and started tickling me mercilessly. I struggled but made no sound, trying to bat his hand away with my free arm. "Come, Faramir, I cannot hear you…"

"You are getting too old for this!" I snarled in defiance, loving every minute of agitating my brother but reeling back in horrific, unbearable pain from his biting fingers. "Come, Boromir, can you do no better?!?" Finally I fell victim to the laughter and yells that wanted so desperately to escape me, and as I bellowed my defiance Boromir only laughed maniacally and tickled me harder.  I suppose Boromir just gave up after a while because I do not remember ever telling him what he wanted to hear, and he knew I was too stubborn to admit defeat.

So there we lay, side by side on the lawn of the Citadel's court with our eyes on the stars and our chests heaving. I think we had consumed the wine too generously, but I could be wrong. Boromir stretched his arms behind his head and exhaled sharply, adding to the sound of our heavy breathing quite arrogantly, "I won."

"Hardly."

"Still holding those doubts?"

"Stop being absurd, Boromir," I scoffed. "I have never doubted you, Boromir."

"Save once."

I exhaled softly, pulling my battered body up to a sitting position – I did not have the energy to look him in the eyes at this point. "You know I did not doubt you even then, Boromir." He came up beside me and let his elbows rest on his knees, and when I dared to look at him he only stared forward. The wind brushed past us swiftly and held a late thickness, and I saw Boromir frown, and then turn to look at me.

"We should go."

"Aye we should." I heaved myself to my feet, ignoring my still tender ribs, and extended a hand. When he slapped it away and got up himself I could only laugh at him, which fixed his face into one of those scowls he always seems to be wearing, but I knew my brother well enough to know that one could not judge his mood by his facial expression. Boromir's arm found my shoulders, and I walked him back to his old quarters before going home myself.

I found something interesting nailed to my door upon coming back to my home, and it cleared the way for any doubts I might have had about the rumor of me starting the fire that ruined my brother's home had gotten into even Aragorn's servants. At the moment I was not horribly focused on the idea of slapping them all in cuffs for twice spilling hot and cold liquid in places not usually mentioned – it was on the note that stared back at me from my door.

It was a rough sketch of a fellow, completely composed of ink scratches, with what looked like a sign around his neck that read, 'The Valiant Captain'. He appeared to be holding a match to an apartment building.