DISCLAIMER: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

II

"In the first moment we had never a thought

That they were creatures to be owned and used.

Among them were some half-a-dozen colts

Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,

Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.

Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads,

But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.

Our life is changed; their coming our beginning."

Edwin Muir, The Horses.

I had not seen this happening to me. Two things, namely, I had carved out as the only fates I would ever have. To wither and age, lost in the half-realised dreams of valour unattained, battles never fought, let alone won. And the other? To descend into battle and rise with glory, worthy of a shieldmaiden of Rohan, not imprisoned by the cage of my role as daughter, orphan, niece, woman. And all in a land where valour is given to those who ride into the fray, not those stay behind and wait.

I had not seen this as my fate.

Once, I had thought that I loved another, and often I consider that I did, at least, as truly as one can love another whom they have known for a fraction of time, almost a stranger. But it was not returned, and now? Now I am glad, and full of joy.

"Wish me joy, lord".

And he said it healed his heart to see me now in bliss. Bliss, yes, that is what I find myself in, a state of lucid dreaming, where I have to pinch my arm through the fabric of my sleeve to remind myself that it is real.

He rides beside me now, quiet and upright, not outwardly proud or vainglorious, as once I had thought a captain of men should be. I had dreams of men with flowing standards, shining helmets, axes swinging in heated air, unnumbered victories, loud claims to honour. No more. I love this man, different from any other I have known, with his gentle smile and modest demeanour.

He is an archer, a scholar, a true leader. His men would follow him, like my countrymen had followed my uncle, to whatever end. I would have been quick to judge him, had I been the person I was. I would have been the first to shun his modesty, challenged him to prove his worth, called him coward for not delighting in the throes of battle and the fire of combat.

And now I understand, and I blush to think of what I might have said had I not realised my love for him and seen the man he is.

There is still so much to discover about him. Faramir is like a well, a deep well that is rooted into the earth, cool in its swirling darkness and profound in its echoes. I have heard the songs now, his charge to reclaim Osgiliath, a tragedy of loss if ever a minstrel sung such a song. Bravery in the face of doom. He led them back into the ruins of the city knowing that they would meet their end there.

He did not, and returned, as was justly said at that moment, after great deeds. I felt like weeping on first hearing the tale, and holding him to me as if an embrace could heal such deep cuts on his memory. But I hesistated, and when the song was over, I had only reached under the table and clasped his hand in mine. It was mine that trembled, but the rims of tears glittered in his eyes then.

I said nothing to him afterwards. I am yet unskilled in such things as expressing feelings and offering words of comfort. My comfort is that of any warrior, no more than a few spare words and a rough hand on a shoulder. If I were to speak, surely I would misjudge the cause of his melancholy.

I still do not understand his sadness though. He looks away from me sometimes, as if there is something pressing on him that seems too trivial to trouble me with, but yet weighs upon him so that in the midst of his happiness I can see, in his clear, wise eyes, that there are still tales to be told about Faramir of Gondor.

He had a brother, also. We are alike in that, but though my irrepressible brother is now King of the Golden Hall, I have not determined the details of his brother's life and yes, his death. Perhaps that is what weighs upon him. I have seen what grief can do to a person, how it can wear them down into shadows of what they once were. I have seen death.

I have heard of his brother, of course. Minas Tirith, Ithilien and ill-fated Osgiliath are all steeped in the legacy of Boromir, firstborn of Denethor, pride of Gondor, a figure who seems larger than life, a myth, too dynamic and potent to be real. Sometimes I imagine this brother of my husband's. He would look like Faramir, of course, but beyond that he is a man of tall stature with a fearless laugh and a warm smile, perhaps the kind that I would have looked up to, but a blurred image and nothing more.

Long had I lived in Eomer's shadow. I love my brother, perhaps more than I will ever admit to him, but every time he rode out from Meduseld, every time I was left on the threshold I felt the darkness creep towards me. And then I was alone.

We had been riding for hours and neither of us showed signs of tiring. At last Faramir slowed and reined in his steed, pointing at the horizon.

"Eowyn, look"

I turned in the direction of his outstretched hand. The sky was ablaze with colour, slate and flame as the sun receded into the distance. I had been so lost in thought I had not even noticed that the sun was setting. I looked at him, and saw the fierce colours strike a shining display in his gaze. I remained looking at him, loving his outline against the darkening sky.

"It's beautiful", I managed, not trusting my grasp on the eloquent to utter more.

He turned back to me, and suddenly I felt light, as if a great light had been opened on me.

"You are lovelier"

I blushed, and blushed deeper when I saw the smile that broke across his face at my reaction.

"I would not exchange a thousand such skies for a glimpse of you"

Such words I have no answer to. I spent so long struggling to return the compliment that my silence persauded him to tighten his grasp on the reins and make to continue. I panicked.

"Faramir-"

He looked at me again, questioning my outburst silently with his half-smile.

"Let us stay for a while" I beseeched him. I would not have lost that moment for anything on Middle-Earth. When he pulled his steed in next to mine, closer than before, he reached for my hand and held it steadily.

"I had hoped you would say that", he murmured, and lifting my hand, raised it to his lips. A firm but gentle kiss on my skin.

I bowed my head in acknowledgement, unable to hide the wide smile threatening to bubble up in a laugh of pure happiness. It was only when he lifted my head with a careful hand under my chin that I was forced to look up and reveal the joy on my face.

***