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

Thanks to everyone for the enthusiastic reviews - much appreciated!

Morithil.

VI

"Hast thou given the horse strength?

Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?

Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper?

The glory of his nostrils is terrible.

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength;

He goeth on to meet the armed men.

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage;

Neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.

He saith among the trumpets, "Ha, Ha! "

And he smelleth the battle afar off,

The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."

The Bible, Job 39.

Though the fire crackles before my feet, the evening has grown colder around me.

I have no words to say to his outburst, no touch that can cure his pains, I have stood here in silence for the last hour and though the night has drawn its cloak about me I cannot but think furiously amidst the inky blackness and the flickering tongues of flame that spark in the dry air.

Think on the fire, Eowyn, as it mirrors the burning in your chest.

Faramir worshipped his brother, this I now know. I begin to understand the enormity of his passing, far from home, with no family to send him on into whatever lies beyond death. I can see why Faramir's regrets have grown in number. Perhaps they are unnumbered, therefore how can I hope to dispel them and with them his sadness? I have my own regrets, but surely they are nothing compared to his. Is my love enough to help Faramir? If so, then why does his admittance hurt him so when it is I whom he chose to reveal part of it to? Perhaps I am again unskilled in such matters, unskilled in love.

My love could not keep my mother from fleeing this life. For all my claims to honour, my uncle lies in his tomb, surrounded by those who went before, including my own cousin. When Theodred passed away, damp and cold on his bed, I swore through painful tears that if I had been there at the Fords of Isen, the White Wizard would have known my wrath within minutes. Now I see that I could not have assailed Isengard, even more so on my own. The black tower would have overshadowed me, and in the web of his voice I would have been struck dead as a stone. At Theodred's funeral, I could feel my voice breaking as I sung the last refrain, my throat trembling as the name of Meduseld left my lips. I saw my uncle's face, quiet and restrained throughout the ceremony as he followed the body of his only son to the silence of his tomb.

Now they lie side by side in Meduseld.

Then I wished fervently for more power than my woman's form would allow me to have. My brother was riding, always riding, at that time roaming the lands in exile, unlawful banishment and every day I felt his absence but more so I felt my own solitude begin to forge a cage for myself alone. I wished I was my uncle's nephew and not his niece, so that I might command the riders and wreak the terrible vengeance on the Uruk-Hai as Eomer did on a night that clouded the stars and two Halflings became intertwined with the fates of Rohan and Gondor.

I was angry as a child. Not outwardly, not thrashing about, not voicing my rage freely to the winds, but nevertheless I was consumed by anger. I would clench my fists so that the small knuckles turned white and Eomer would have to reach across and swipe the fists open with a disapproving cuff. There was much to be angry of. Our father was dead, slain by orcs, and even though we were passed into the loving care and over the threshold of our uncle, our mother passed away from her grief. And I was not so much saddened by her death as I was grieved by what I perceived as her callousness in dying. Why she would choose to abandon us, her own children, when there is no certainty beyond death that all will be reunited with those they love. Eomer stood taller in those dark days, shielding me from the glare of his own quiet grief, his arm around my shoulder as we followed the rituals, two young children made older by the dark robes of mourning. We rode frequently, but not far. Only Eomer spanned the plains of Rohan in his young adulthood, while I was left disgruntled and out of place among the women of our people. How many times had I gazed out from the Golden Hall, seen the white horse of Rohan flicker in the breeze and watch the panels of light cross the wide open land, imagining myself riding away, my shield and my sword in hand, fearless as a maiden of the house of Eorl should be, the cry of, "Forth Eorlingas!", thrown impassioned to the skies, my voice like a spear thrown in battle.

What is to be done, I asked myself. I brought up Faramir's discarded cloak from the ground and wrapped it around my shoulders as the evening breezes grew cooler. I brought the fabric close to my face, kissed the woven edges softly and let a quiet sigh leave my body. It is strange that we can be so close in terms of distance, but so far away, separated by many days' travel in our minds. I glanced towards the dark outline of our tent, and heard no sound come from within. It is silent and almost ominous now, as my uncle's house became when Eomer was banished.

I was so alone.

The warm halls and roaring fires of Meduseld turned grey and ashen when my uncle's mind was overthrown, imprisoned by terrible wizardry. I walked the long hallways quickly and as little as possible, not trusting their panelled sides or their lit beacons, ever fearful of the shadows following me, even when the day forbade all such things from entering the house. But followed I was, and what might have become of me, were it not for the power of Gandalf Greyhame and the restoration of my uncle, I shuddered to think, for the stooped and heavily cloaked frame of Gríma Wormtongue haunted me for days after he rode out from Edoras and into the employment of Isengard. The sibilant croak of his voice chilled my skin even after he was thrown from the threshold; his writhing form on the flaggoned steps nearly forced me to run back into the safety of the Golden Hall, pitiful in his treachery as he was.

And there was no steed I could allow to bear me away from Edoras, had I wanted to go. I was surrounded by horses, wooden outlines and forms carved in the halls, static in their fury, immovable and silent. Everywhere there was movement and yet stillness at the same time. I retreated into the past to escape the bare horror of the present. I remembered how Eomer and I would look at each other in the same way that we did when he brought our cousin back, wounded and near death. My brother would give me that look from under his eyes and the straggly straw-coloured locks that still hang over his brow today even then, when we were children. Brother and sister united in silence and grief, as we had been the moment we became orphans, voicing our self-pity to no one save each other and ourselves.

I looked again to our tent, and saw only darkness and grief. There is still time, I told myself, still time to mend old wounds and forge new hopes. It was this thought that pulled me irresistibly forward, my feet softly treading the short grass until I reached the opening. I stood for some minutes in front of the tent, torn between leaving Faramir to his own devices and crouching to enter our makeshift home. The air stirred with the night songs of insects and the occasional call of an owl, silently winging its way to the earth.

I crouched down and, holding the heavy flap aside, slipped inside, his cloak drawn tight around me.

When my eyes adjusted to the dense blackness inside, I could see Faramir sitting, his arms resting on his knees, his face unreadable as he stared into nothingness, his eyes heavy with thought or numbness, I knew not which. I have to try. Comfort is all I can offer.

"My lord?"

There was no response. He stared ahead, unseeing in the darkness.

"Faramir"

I let the flap of material drop, and as the opening of the tent slapped shut he blinked and turned his gaze to me. I felt him take in the presence of his cloak wrapped close about me, and even then, as I saw the dull pain in his eyes, my skin tingled as it did when we first met in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. If I close my eyes I can still smell the fresh scents of healing plants and folded linen, and if I open them again I can lose myself in his look.

I dropped my hand from where it had clutched the cloak to me, and taking the garment in both hands, made my way closer to him and opening the fabric, swept the cloak around his shoulders gently.

I felt him shiver at my touch. I moved closer, made bolder by his silence, which had previously made me keep my distance. I smoothed the soft cloth over his shoulders, slowly running my hands along his back as I gathered the folds about him.

"You must be cold. The night grows chill"

No comfort in those words, Eowyn, but it is a start, to be certain.

I reached round his neck with my right hand to pull the cloak higher about his neck, and saw his eyelids flicker. His head lowered as I smoothed the fabric around his collarbone, and as my hand trailed briefly across his chest as I withdrew it, a short sigh escaped his lips.

My confidence grows with every sign of him giving in to me.

I lift my left hand up to cup the back of his neck, slipping it under the wavy locks that fall about his shoulders. I lean closer to him and he struggles to remain staring directly in front at the canvas wall of the tent.

"Faramir", I murmur at his cheek.

His eyes close as I plant a lingering kiss at his jaw line. I cannot stop myself and place another at the corner of his mouth, steadying myself with a hand over the arm that rests on his knee. Through the sleeve of his tunic I can feel him tense. I shift so that I kneel behind him, my hands moving to his shoulders as I kiss the side of his neck. I want to hold him to me as I did the cloak, but some inner uncertainty holds me back, so I brush my hand gently under his chin to draw him to me, leading him to look over his left shoulder. Where there was so much silence is now a ripple of heartbeats so deafening I fear my brain will burst. His eyes are still closed, and as my palm frames one noble cheek he speaks.

"Eowyn", hoarsely through dry lips.

Relief floods my mind. I rise slightly to move, and resume a kneeling position before him. I lean forward into his space and slowly, for I do not know if I assume too much, draw my arms about his neck and let the small distance between us be breached by our quickening breaths. A tight cord knots in my throat; am I right in doing so? I am answered by his hands sliding from his knees and roaming upwards so that I am clasped in his tight embrace, a single thought running repeatedly through my mind -

I love this man.

When he reaches for my mouth I am unable to move, and when his lips cover mine and engulf me in a slow but desperate kiss I can feel my knees tremble. I rebuke myself; a shieldmaiden of Rohan to be cowed by a kiss? And I respond as fervently as his torturous, searching mouth will allow me to, a telling sigh leaving my lips as a groan escapes his. Our lips sear on our mouths. His hands grip my waist and back more firmly after, and I whisper to him as he lowers his head to my burning neck -

"Let me help you, Faramir"

His heavy breathing warms my already heated throat. A warm tear streaks down my neck as he chokes, with emotion? I know not. Still holding me tightly, his broken words cut the air as he lifts his head to face me with swollen eyes damp with tears, our breaths catching.

"Gods-", and his hands shake as they begin to jerk away from me.

"-I would not use you so to relieve me of my selfish pain. I would fain die than use you like this"

He rubs his face harshly with one sleeve to dry the moist tracks under his eyes. My heart weighs like lead within my chest as he stumbles to his feet and out of the tent, his plea ringing with self-disgust and shame.

"Forgive me-"

I hear him pace heavily outside our tent, a stolid pattern interrupted only by suppressed cries of anguish, so brief in their existence before his hand and strong will cuts them off, but no less painful on my very soul.

I lie down amid the rumpled blankets and draw his abandoned cloak about me once more. My body aches for him yet, even as his kisses cool on my skin.