Chapter 8

Éowyn's face paled. No, she would not allow herself to be taken in by these words of love and affection. Nothing ever came out of them anyway, and she tightened her lips into a scowl. Perhaps she was coming off as aloof and unfriendly, but nothing else could do. Fancy the nerve of the Prince of Ithilien, latching onto her so quickly. She twisted her face into a sardonic smile eventually.

"I'm sorry, but perhaps the situation is too much for you to comprehend? My husband's just perished, and I have a child, and a person whom I've just known is making declarations of love at my door," she said sarcastically before proceeding to glare at him mutinously. Faramir seemed slightly thrown off-kilter, and shook his head.

"I am sorry, my lady," he said quickly before shutting the door silently and walking away. It had been a terrible idea, he said to himself, slightly pained and regretful. Of course the Lady of Rohan wasn't interested, she was still mourning, all things considered. He berated himself inwardly as he knocked sharply into the King of Rohan, who was hurrying around a bend.

"How is she?" Éomer asked. "I understand that you visited my sister?"

"Well. She appears well enough to pass sarcastic remarks," Faramir replied truthfully. Éomer laughed hollowly.

"Well, that appears like what she might have done when provoked…" his voice trailed off, taking on a dangerous undertone.

"Oh no, Your Majesty," Faramir said hastily. He didn't know what the Lady of Rohan would call it – unwanted advances? – but he certainly felt that under any circumstances, he hadn't been nasty and bothersome.

"Well. Well. Good, then," Éomer said, sounding slightly pompous. He walked away, leaving Faramir standing in the middle of the hallway, looking slightly confused and bemused.

Éomer sat in his chair at a desk strewn with papers. He had another crime to add to the growing list of offences on Grima Wormtongue's list of charges – murder. He cringed as he recalled the descriptions given by Aragorn, and could only feel hatred for this servant of Saruman. Yes, the White Wizard was now getting his henchmen to do all his dirty work. A little like Sauron and his Nazgul, Éomer mused to himself thoughtfully. He couldn't help wondering where his brother-in-law could possibly be at the moment – somewhere back in the Light, where the other elves who had passed went? Or did they await judgment? A rush of anger surged through Éomer. Damn Grima Wormtongue, he thought viciously as in a fit of anger, he swiped the inkpot and sent it crashing to the round. The black ink spread in an enormous black puddle, staining the ground and seeping into random sheets of parchment. As he watched the pages being dyed black, he cried like a little boy, for the first time since…well, a long time. He had felt that he had to be the strong figure, never wavering, but now in the privacy of his room, he felt the pain seep out of his soul, mingling with the salty tears and flow out in a rush.

The door flew open suddenly.

"Oh, my goodness," Aragorn said faintly, before noticing his friend wracked with tears. "Éomer, are you all right? Speak to me,"

Éomer shook his head. "I really needed to get everything out. Keeping the anger in me just wouldn't work," he said. "I'm so sorry about the floor…it wasn't deliberate but…"

Aragorn shook his head as well. "That can be cleaned up. I have a feeling, however, that your inner turmoil is still raging. You're doing a good job of hiding it in front of everyone else, but…"

"It's not the pain and sadness, it's anger and fear. You know as well as I do that he never intended to kill Haldir at all – he was just snooping around too much to get Saruman worried, so on the spur he got stabbed, Aragorn. We are the ones he intends to kill. He won't hesitate to return now that he's killed and his morale has risen. When he returns, he will have larger plans. That's what worries me," Éomer realised that his voice had been rising in a crescendo, and caught himself in time. "Sorry,"

Aragorn looked concerned. He realized that his own sentiments echoed Éomer's exactly. Once word of Haldir's death leaked out to the citizens of Gondor, there would be mass hysteria. Nobody would be able to deal with a large-scale panic attack at this point of time.

Arwen pulled sharply away from the door. Her elven ears had picked up most of the strain of the conversation, and she knew what kind of danger they were in. no doubt, she'd be picking up senses of what was to come, but these senses were sometimes more of a hindrance than help. She sighed deeply and walked away, resisting the urge to find out more. She knew the bloodthirstiness and the wrath of Grima Wormtongue. She knew that all he had dome to Haldir, he intended to do to Aragorn too. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, she mused to herself. At least he had died a hero's death. She allowed her thoughts to drift momentarily to the other residents. There was Éomer, the King of Rohan, who came rushing to Rohan to protect the King of Gondor. His sister, Éowyn clearly has old business with her husband, not that she blamed her for it, but she had witnessed a much more vulnerable side of the Lady of Rohan than how she had been described. Faramir – she had witnessed him gazing after Éowyn, but clearly Éowyn was much too in love with Haldir to pay him any attention, making anything more than friendship from her to Faramir nearly impossible.

Speak of the devil, Arwen thought as she walked into the garden. She glanced at the prince of Ithilien.

"Prince Faramir," she said, inclining her head in a friendly bow. Faramir acknowledged her with a deep bow. "Queen Arwen," he said politely. He seemed to be immersed in his thoughts, and Arwen felt her maternal instincts emerge.

She sat down next to him, and said, "I can tell you have a problem, Prince Faramir. And in any case, you can discuss it with me," she said warmly. She thought that perhaps she was prying, but she was really interested – and she needed someone to speak to. Not just the usual polite talk exchanged between ladies of the court, or even the polite talk that she was forced to make with Aragorn recently – clearly, he was happy enough to talk politics with Éomer, and comfort Lady Éowyn, but was too busy to speak to his own wife…she lifted her chin and gazed into Faramir's eyes, and found herself sucked by the whirlpool of emotions swirling inside.

"This morning, I went up to the Lady Éowyn, and – told her that I loved her," Faramir confessed, looking rather worried. "And perhaps – I was hoping you could have a little chat with her…and …"

Arwen shook her head. "Éowyn is mourning, and to spring such a show of affection on her would be highly unorthodox, not to mention insensitive," she said, sighing. The incredibly mindless things men could do when their minds were addled with love, she thought, but Faramir seemed to be oblivious to the obvious.

"In that case, what ought I do?" Arwen found herself at a loss of what to say. She simply replied with the most honest answer she could come up with at the moment. "Just to be a friend through her time of need. What she needs now is a close confidante," Arwen said honestly. She felt a frisson of understanding pass through them, and as Faramir stood to leave, she stood up hastily and gave him a quick kiss on the lips before spinning around wildly, and dashed for the sanctuary of the castle.

Arwen felt her head spin dangerously. Oh God, what have I done?