A/N: This is simply another draft of the same thing (sorry) — but I'm not certain which I like more. This is an elaboration of three lines I wrote for my own fanfic challenge at Emyn Arnen. Oh, and my treatment of the Númenórean Faramir is inspired by a line from the Silmarillion: "Therefore they grew wise and glorious, and in all things more like to the Firstborn than any other of the kindreds of Men; and they were tall, taller than the tallest of the sons of Middle-earth; and the light of their eyes was like the bright stars."

------

Do you carry a blade, lady Éowyn?

He is seated beside her, eating with a hearty appetite. Almost he could be one of her people, were it not for his black hair and pale, almost ashen, skin—he looks like a man who has not so much as stepped out of doors in ten years. And — well, perhaps not one of her people, but not so different, either. It is easier to speak to him, think of him, now, when he is sitting down and there is no unrelenting sunlight to highlight the differences between them. And so they talk, of inconsequential things, and she hardly notices the line between his brows that quickly disappears.

Later they stand by the window, and he asks her — such a strange question, but in these days, not so strange. Before he came, it seemed as if all grew dark around her, and it will be dark again when he leaves. She has herself considered the matter, although she does not dare ask herself why. Instead she asks him, trusting that he will have the answer, and more, speak to her. He is not a man to whom deceits of any kind come easily.

No; why do you ask?

She is proud of the steadiness of her voice, but when she peers up at him — absentmindedly rubbing her neck as she does so, for he is by far the tallest man she has ever seen — his face has changed. She remembers her grandmother the Queen whose eyes were the same clear, calm grey as Faramir's, but which, when the mood took her, shone so brightly in her pale face so that no-one dared look at her. Some said witch, and she was never certain whether they were right or not. Faramir's eyes are blazing like stars now, and his gaze travels around the room, until it settles upon the most unlikely target imaginable — Gríma Wormtongue.

I would advise that you do so.

She takes his advice.

The next day, he leaves to follow his dream, but his last private words are for her. She can hardly make them out, for they are simply a blessing in what her grandmother called the noble tongue, but she understands híril-nín and elenath. So, when Gríma tries to poison his mind with her clever words, she thinks of the knife concealed at her side, and of her grandmother and Faramir with their lilting voices and bright eyes, and for now, she does not listen.

the Sindarin words are "my lady" and "stars." The actual blessing was, "May the stars shine upon your path, my lady."

Meg Ishiro: Thank you very much for your reviews. This is just a little thing, but I think I shall continue with it, along with the others. I'm glad you didn't think the description wasn't . . . overdone.

Gypsie Rose: I am deeply honoured to be reviewed by you! Thanks so much for your praise. And you are absolutely right about the Númenóreans. I started writing fanfiction out of pure frustration with their treatment in the movies and fanon. When Mithrandir tells Pippin about the blood of Númenor running true, I don't think he's talking about black hair and grey eyes. They should be different from other people; as Faramir, in TTT, is quite definitely "different." So you noticed Faramir's more unique capabilities too? I'm so glad someone did; when he says "But I do not think you are holden to go to Cirith Ungol, of which he has told you less than he knows. That much I perceived clearly in his mind" he's clearly not making mere intuitive guesses. I'm glad you liked it, and the association with Morwen (who is a cousin of Prince Adrahil, Faramir's maternal grandfather).