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

Thanks for the reviews! You guys rule.

Morithil.

IV

"Horses in my dreams,

Like waves, like the sea,

They pull out of here,

They pull, they are free...

I have pulled myself clear."

PJ Harvey, Horses In My Dreams

He looks tired, but he will not admit it. These dreams of his will return with every night, and every morning his eyes betray him, slight shadows under the suddenly weary gaze that greets me with a wan half smile and an admirable attempt at gaiety.

There is much for us to be happy about. We have both defeated evil, both fought to save our lands and people, and the War of the Ring ended, the free peoples of Middle-Earth overcoming all odds to emerge victorious. We have found each other, and in the gardens of the Houses of Healing there was begun the most beloved, to my mind, of the many quiet joys the end of the War brought.

Yet he worries, I can see it. His hands shook this morning, and I wondered what could move such a warrior to such a display of - I do not know. It is not fear, I think, for Faramir is many things but he is never one to show fear, he stands unflinching like a shield to rebuff many arrows. He is not one to show fear, but now that I consider it, he is not one to show many feelings that some, and alas, I at one time, would have considered to be signs of weakness.

The thought struck me as we were dismantling the small tent we share, just large enough for the two of us to lie side by side in it, swathed in blankets, our swords sheathed and lain on either side of our makeshift bed and our riding boots placed together at our feet. I do not know why, but the sight of our boots standing lopsidedly together at the front of our tent makes me smile.

I find humour in the most absurd things, sometimes.

It is unfortunate that I cannot do so with my own dreams, or rather nightmares, as I would fain call them. They have lessened of late, visiting me more and more infrequently, but on certain nights I stand again helpless before the Witch King, and my arm aches the following morning as if the bone had been freshly broken only days before. I wake up, but thankfully not with any visible signs of the terror the night has brought, or Faramir would have more on his mind than his own dreams, and I do not wish to burden him.

I tell myself each morning, with every golden sunrise; you have pulled yourself clear of such shadows now, Eowyn. The darkness is over, you have defeated it. This comforts me, and I realise how much there is now to live for, when all that I had once sought was death. I only want to help Faramir now, if he will let me.

I watch him suffer, quietly and often only for a moment, but that is more than enough.

But back to this morning. Faramir was removing the sharp pegs that pin the corners of the tent to the ground while I saddled the horses, and for reason I know not, for his hands, except after his dreams, are the steadiest in the land, slipped and the pointed tip of the peg he was pulling up ran the length of his palm.

I dropped the blankets I was rolling up to place inside the saddlebags and ran to him. He stood motionless, gazing at the open wound in his palm as if numb. The cut was not very serious, but was quite deep, and had broken through the skin so that blood seeped up through the torn opening as I watched. The cut must have stung sharply, but Faramir's face was emotionless but for one thing.

His jaw tightened as the blood began to slowly trickle down his open palm. I saw the muscles tighten in his face, and realised that any show of pain or vocal response to the injury was being quietly suppressed. Why, I wondered. He need not prove himself to me, I know the warrior in him, I know his strength and if he had voiced his shock at the cut it would have worried me less than the silence he confronted the wound with then.

I quickly tore a long strip from the hem of my dress to bind his hand. It was an old dress, one I would often use for riding in Edoras, with no fanciful embroidery or design, just a simple gown, its cloth thicker than most for wear, and the colour of tea. I bit into the end of the cloth I had torn away to form a shorter piece, and seized upon his hand to wrap it. He started then, as if he had not acknowledged my approach or my touch until that moment, and looked at me as if he did not know why I was there.

I pressed the shorter piece of cloth onto the cut, determined to stop the flow of blood.

Faramir looked at me questioningly.

"You're bleeding".

Again I can only state the obvious. I wound the remaining strip of material round his hand swiftly, binding the makeshift poultice firmly and securing the bandage with a small knot. I do not know why, but his hurt struck me in my heart, and on impulse I snatched his wounded hand up and kissed it through the cloth.

I looked up at him, and saw realisation in his eyes. He squeezed my hand gently, a minute wince forming at the corner of his mouth as he did so. I dropped my gaze to the bandaged hand holding mine. The knot, I realised with embarrassment, was not made with medical skill, and was the same knot I would use to tie a leather strap or the reins of a horse.

And I promised to devote my life to healing. I, Eowyn, who cannot even administer to a cut without tying the bandage as one would tie a steed to a post or bind an armful of hay for the stables.

I dropped his hand and reached for him, cupping his face in my hands. He remained staring at his hand, and I thought for a moment that a tear welled up in one soulful eye.

"The cut is cruel, is it not? I have done my best, the knot is clumsy I know, but I am no healer-"

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"It is fine. My brother would knot such a bandage in the same way"

At last I have it. It is the memory of his brother, surely, that wakes him from slumber. He made off to pick up the discarded peg and placed it in the small sack with the rest.

"Your brother tended to the wounded often?"

He smiled a strange, wistful smile.

"After battle, he would visit the wounded, give them words of courage, laud them on their bravery. But it was not of battle that I spoke. When we were children, I was always stumbling and grazing myself, and Boromir would rush to staunch my cuts and scrapes, always tearing his tunic to wipe the blood away, never leaving me to run to the healers for help. Our father-"

He bit his lip at this, before turning away.

There is much to talk about. His father, I know, was not a kind man; it appears he was much given to releasing his anger on his children, particularly Faramir. I must talk to him about this; he needs to free himself of this shadow, the shadow of his brother and that of his father.

I know much of living in another's shadow, but this I will not tell him. His grievances are more important to me than my own. I must ask him what it is that troubles him so.

We set off across the sunlit plains, rejoicing in the fresh breeze and the thrill of racing the sun as it rose upwards. He smiles now, and out of the corner of my eye I see the grin spread on his face and it makes me glad. Some mischievous streak in me bade me call to him over the soft thunder of hooves.

"A wager, Faramir?"

He looked at me quizzically.

"Name it"

I glanced towards the dark formation of hills in the near distance.

"I will reach those hills before you"

His eyes twinkle at the challenge, and my breath catches in my chest.

"We shall see, my lady. On my count-"

He raised his hand to signal, but I seized my chance, and, digging my heels urgently into the side of my steed, I pelt away over the grass before he can stop me.

I hear a surprised laugh somewhere behind me, and release one of my own as I lean forward, my steed's mane tickling my face as we run faster. I can hear the approaching hooves bearing Faramir come closer, and urge myself on.

The hills loom closer as we race towards them.

I will ask him tonight.