The Lord Faramir did not seem greatly angered by her uncle's distinct lack of cordiality, or even deeply upset; his voice was cold, but free of any personal rancour. There was a trace of annoyance in his brilliant grey eyes, but also amusement; although what he could find to be amused about what was beyond her comprehension. That didn't matter, though; what mattered was that he was not offended, would not return to Mundburg to speak of his deplorable treatment by the wild horsemen of the north. They did not dare lose friendship with Gondor; and Faramir was not a mere ambassador, but a son of the Steward.
She had changed her mind about him quickly. At first, she could not help but think he was one of those petty, self-serving aristocrats, the sort who never set a foot out of doors if they could help it. He was much slenderer than her folk, and his skin was far too pale for a true warrior's; even fairer than her own. Yet when she looked at him properly, she saw that here was one who no Rider of the Mark would outmatch. No, he doubtless had spent many years wielding a weapon; how long, she could not say. He looked a little younger than her brother, about five-and-twenty; but his eyes were older.
Astonishingly, Lord Faramir's stern words seemed to bring Théoden back to himself. Soon they were exchanging pleasantries, and Faramir was welcomed to take one of their best horses with him on his errand. It fell to Éowyn to take him to his rooms.
"I hope you find them to your liking," she ventured.
Faramir smiled down at her (for he was a great deal taller than she). "I am certain I shall," he assured her. Then his brows knit together, and he glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he expected to be followed. "Please forgive my presumption, lady; but is all well in Rohan?"
Éowyn opened her mouth to — she did not know what; she longed to confide in him, as she could not to her brother and cousin, and perhaps she might have — but her sensitive ears caught the small shuffling sound, and her skin crawled. She looked over at Faramir, heart pounding; his hearing was no less sharp than hers. His hand flew to his sword-hilt, but he did not move; indeed, she did not think she had any human being stand so still.
It was somehow no surprise when Gríma, her uncle's most trusted counsellor, crawled out of the shadows. He always seemed present, offering her assistance and support. She had no real reason to distrust him, except that she could never perceive his true thoughts or feelings. He was eloquent; each word seemed to have been thought-out beforetime. And she did not like his appearance, his heavy-lidded dark eyes that seemed to rest on her too often, his thinning colourless hair, the slight dampness that seemed to coat his skin. It was not his fault he was so unattractive, surely, but—
"Master Gríma," she said, with a forced smile. "I did not expect to see you."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Faramir appeared to relax slightly, but he did not move his hand. "My lady," Gríma said, bowing respectfully, and turning to Faramir. "My lord, please forgive my intrusion. There is a matter I wish to speak on, which may concern your . . . errand."
Éowyn glanced over at Faramir. His expression had changed subtly; there was no longer any warmth or friendliness in it; or even the grave composure that had first drawn her to him, in admiration (and perhaps a little envy). Now his face looked as if it had been carved in ivory, and he looked at Gríma with icy grey eyes. Gríma perhaps meant to be intimidating, but he looked like a rather pathetic mouse hunting a particularly fierce cat. Éowyn felt laughter bubbling in her throat at the thought, and ruthlessly suppressed it. After a moment of silence, Faramir inclined his head.
"Perhaps tomorrow morning, I can find some time in which to speak with you, Master — Gríma."
Gríma bowed again, with a lingering glance at Éowyn, and departed. After he was certain to be gone, she let out a breath. "What do you think of him, my lord?"
"Gríma?" Faramir took his hand off his sword hilt. "One of the most disagreeable men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. He is clever, although doubtless not so clever as he imagines himself."
Éowyn smiled. "There are some who call him 'Wormtongue,' for words are his only weapon, and he can twist them with great ease."
"Yes, he has some skill with words," Faramir said. "I would dearly love to see him at my father's mercy for perhaps ten minutes. He would then learn of his utter lack of consequence, which I daresay would be good for him."
Éowyn laughed; and was surprised at herself. It was long since she had been able to laugh so freely, and certainly not at Gríma's expense. These days, his power was such that they did not dare, not even in secret. It seemed that a darkness had fallen on them here; but Faramir did not see it — no, he did, he had noticed earlier — he was unaffected by it, then. She wished she knew why, and that she could feel the same way herself.
