Éomer and Éowyn had been given the task of clearing the table while the rest of the family went out to "collect the tree", whatever that meant. Faramir sat on one of the stools by the high counter where the family broke their fast in the mornings. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red. He turned… yes, there it was, slinking along the bottom of the fence, blasted pest.
He grabbed a kitchen knife from the block on the counter and opened the door to the garden. Thank heavens the chickens were nowhere to be seen, safely in the wooden shed, he presumed. Strange that they were not out foraging in the grass at this time of day. He took aim with the knife and threw, but at the last moment, the fox moved and the knife embedded itself harmlessly in the wooden fence.
"Faramir," Éowyn's voice yelled from the doorway behind him. But he was already intent on the hunt. He had the animal cornered. He managed to grab it by the scruff of its neck, but it squirmed, trying desperately to escape. Any moment now, it would wrest itself from his grasp. Without thinking, he threw it through the opening into the strange round chicken run that took up most of the garden. Once surrounded by the netting, it wouldn't be able to escape, and he would be able to dispatch it at his leisure. The chickens would be safe.
"What on earth are you doing, Faramir?"
Head first, he dived through the narrow gap in the netting in pursuit of the fox, rolling so he'd come down shoulder first, bracing himself for the impact. And bounced. As did the fox – high into the air. It hit the netting, made an outraged, high pitched yapping noise, then slithered down the netting. Faramir tried to get to his feet, but the base of the coop gave, and sprung beneath him, and he landed, arse first on the ground. Then bounced back into the air. The fox was catapulted into the netting a second time. He lunged for it, but only succeeded in losing his balance once more, while the fox bounced into the air yet again.
Behind him, he could hear guffaws, male and female. Once more, he tried to stand, then fell, this time landing on hands and knees facing back towards the house. In the doorway, he could see brother and sister, arms round each other's necks, tears of laughter running down their faces.
The fox leapt onto his back, sprang off it through the narrow opening in the netting, then streaked out of the garden like a flaming bolt of lightning as if the hordes of Barad-dûr were at its heels.
Éowyn let go of Éomer, grabbed the door frame, then slid down to hunker on the floor, gasping for breath.
"Faramir, you daft fucker, what the hell were you trying to do?" Éomer asked.
"Catch the fox before it got to the chickens," Faramir replied, gesturing at the garden shed.
"We don't have any chickens..."
"But the eggs we had for breakfast..."
"Came from the supermarket, you fucking idiot."
Éowyn wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie. "God, that's the funniest thing I've seen in… I don't know how long. That poor bloody fox. All it wanted was to have a good root around in the dustbins, and instead some nutter comes at it with a knife."
~o~O~o~
"I suppose with you being a Medieval archer and all that, you'll thinking cooking is women's work..." Éowyn's voice came out a bit more tartly than she'd expected, or intended. She looked at Faramir to see how he'd react. He looked at her, those dark eyebrows raised in slight surprise, or perhaps simply by way of a question.
"I am a soldier of sorts too… Do you not think me capable of cooking my rations or mending my clothes when on campaign?"
"Good," Éowyn replied, feeling slightly embarrassed. "You can scrape the carrots and prep the sprouts. I'll do leeks and cauliflower. The spuds we'll do tomorrow. Doesn't do to leave them in water overnight. We'll set the table too. But Jane likes as much stuff sorted as we can on Christmas Eve, so it's all ready to go tomorrow."
Faramir drew the chopping board and a knife to him, and set to. Éowyn noticed with amusement that he was indeed quite good at the task, neat and fast. She started slicing the leeks and laying them in layers in the gratin dish.
"So, Jane says you are a healer of the sick. She showed me your picture," he said, conversationally. He gestured with the point of his knife towards her picture on the wall.
Éowyn smiled. "That's one way of putting it. Army medic, yes."
"Then I bless you from the bottom of my heart, for I have on occasion needed similar ministrations myself." He shoved up the arm of his – Éomer's – dark blue jumper to reveal a long, slightly ragged scar glistening white against the tanned skin and fine dark hairs.
"Sheesh, that's a nasty one. But your medic's quite handy with a needle – it's a neat job." She looked more closely and said "Bowie knife?"
"I know not this type."
"Combat knife. The scar's a bit of a mess."
"Sword. I was lucky though. It skidded off my vambrace, but most of the force had been taken out of the thrust – just as well, it didn't go too deeply into the muscle, nor sever any sinews."
Éowyn looked across the counter at Faramir, mind whirling. She knew he had to be talking nonsense. No one fought with real swords any more. Fencing, yes, in protective clothes, but for real… no way. But at the same time everything he said was delivered with such an air of sincerity, such a look of truth in those dark grey eyes, that she found herself carried away by the narrative. She wanted to believe him, but this idea that he was from another world was just patently absurd. Maybe the look of truth was simply because he believed it himself, utterly and without question. Which she supposed made him both a nicer person and a madder one than the alternative, that he was playing some sort of elaborate prank or con job.
Maybe with a bit of nudging he'd give himself away. Or realise what he was saying made no sense.
"So, how did it happen?"
"Mablung – he's our sergeant – and I were on patrol in the woods. We spotted a Haradrim scout. Damn near missed him, he was bloody good, even by our standards, but he disturbed a bird, and I saw the movement. Tried to take him out with my bow, but he managed to get under cover in time, so we set off after him. I'm faster than Mab, so I was just about on him when we both broke cover into a clearing where there were a couple of his comrades. He fancied the odds and turned to fight, and the other two started to run up the hill towards us. Thank the Valar, Mab got to the edge of the clearing in time to put an arrow in one of them, but then I found myself fighting off the remaining two. Mab couldn't get a clear line of sight without risking hitting me, so he came – well I would say 'running' – but it was more of a wheezing trot by that stage. I'd got one of them in the guts – bloke was careless with his guard – but the other came at me and managed to get under my guard and slice my arm. I'd have been stuffed if I'd been on my own, but Mablung finally got an arrow in him."
"Sergeants where I come from are bloody fit," said Éowyn.
"I'm a good ten years younger than him," Faramir retorted. "Though I did put him on extra training when we got back..."
"You put him on…" Éowyn's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're a bloody Rupert! I should have known from the way you talk. Radio 3. It all makes sense now. Only Ruperts listen to Radio 3."
"Rupert?" asked Faramir, those black brows of his drawing together quizzically.
"An officer."
"Guilty as charged… I take it you're not." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Is this the end of a beautiful friendship?"
"Depends," Éowyn replied. She tried to ignore the odd flash of… something… at the beautiful friendship quip. "What are the rules on fraternizing with other ranks in your outfit?"
"Probably less tight than in yours – seeing as you include members of the fairer sex." Faramir glanced at her briefly, then looked away, too soon to see Éowyn flush faintly. He continued rather hastily, "I try to tread the line between having the odd tankard of beer with my men, but making sure no boundaries get overstepped. They have to know I'm in charge, in control – nothing makes a melee go to shit faster than a breakdown of military discipline, and that's the officer's cock-up, not the men's."
Éowyn put her knife down, and cupped her chin in her hands thoughtfully. "You know, I'd never really thought about it from the Rupert's point of view before. I suppose it must be quite a difficult balancing act. You don't want to be some cold, by-the-book bastard, but you don't want them taking liberties either."
Faramir gave a smile in return, and Éowyn felt another flash… This really wouldn't do. She knew nothing about him. He was delusional and thought he had sword fights and archery contests with imaginary enemy armies in fantasy woodlands. And yet, and yet…
"What would you say your closest call has been?" he asked her.
And for the first time since it happened, she found herself finally opening up about the IED on the road outside Basra, the truck in front blown off the road. Éowyn had grabbed her medical kit, crawled through the dirt trying to find cover. The driver and passenger had been dead when she got there, pretty much strawberry jam over the inside of the windscreen. Not a sight she wanted to see again in a hurry. The guy in the back had lost a leg, a vast pool of dark red spreading beneath him across the burning desert sand. She'd just got the tourniquet tight when a sniper's rounds rang out. Next thing she'd known, a hot pain had lanced through her shoulder.
"I was dead lucky – high velocity round, not a soft point, in and out without hitting bone or blood vessels." She pulled her jumper off her shoulder to show a puckered white scar. She didn't realise it, but now it was Faramir's turn to be hit by a wave of confusion. The weirdest mixture of emotions – compassion for her wounds, even though long healed, a gut clenching feeling that a mere handspan, and the outcome could have been so different. But coupled with… a realisation that she had a sublimely beautiful neck and shoulder. And skin so smooth he was sure it would feel like warm silk beneath his fingers. Which was not at all the sort of realisation he was used to having, comparing war wounds with a fellow soldier. He took another sprout from the bag, and started to remove its outer leaves, by way of a distraction.
Éowyn seemed to sense that a change of mood was needed. "That's enough near misses. Daftest thing that's ever happened to you? Well, other than chasing a fox into a kids' trampoline. That would take some beating."
Faramir raised his hand to his breast and bowed his head slightly in mock salute, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Glad to have provided some entertainment." Then he thought for a moment. "Probably the time a couple of the younger Rangers tried to smuggle a bear cub into the refuge. They had some idiotic idea that they could train it up and then sell it as a dancing bear next time they got back to the White City on leave. They thought they could make an improvised cage in one of the store-rooms with ash branches lashed together. The silly fools didn't realise that bears can gnaw their way through just about anything – ash branches, sack-cloth, a se'en-nights worth of oats, flour, salt pork and root vegetables. They rather regretted it though."
"What did you do?"
"Well, in that sort of situation, you can always trust your second in command and sergeant to make the punishment fit the crime. Though I may have dropped a hint or two about giving them free rein to be inventive. Obviously they got a month's shit-shovelling duties – that's Damrod's, the lieutenant's, starting point. But Mablung really put the icing on the cake. Next time they were in the City, he took them..." Here, Faramir flushed slightly. "Maybe I shouldn't say this to a lady..."
Éowyn grinned. "I'm no lady."
"I beg to differ," said Faramir, bowing his head to her slightly. "Anyway, he took them to a house of ill-repute in the seventh circle."
"That doesn't sound much of a punishment."
"Not as customers. As students. He said since they were so keen on getting bears to dance, it was time they got a dancing lesson – proper Haradrim belly dancing. Then made them give a performance – all decked out in silks and gauzes – when they got back to the refuge."
Éowyn snorted with laughter. "I don't think I can top that. But I did once send a new recruit to the stores for a long stand. The quartermaster told him to wait in the corner while he got it ready. It was an hour and a half before he realised he'd been had." Éowyn glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Hey, nearly three. I know something you'll really like, specially with your Rupert Radio 3 fetish. Carols from Kings."
She switched the radio on, to make sure they didn't miss the start. It did mean, however, that she had to listen to the end of the previous programme as well. This turned out to be a documentary on English Elizabethan and post-Elizabethan polyphony. Kill me now, thought Éowyn, but Faramir rapidly became quite engrossed in it. She rolled her eyes and turned to the cauliflower, chopping it into neat florets. Then a snippet of the discussion actually registered with her.
Of course, several of the Mass settings we're discussing use the same theme, a popular song of the day, the Western Wind. The announcer's voice was replaced by a man's voice, singing a hauntingly simple melody.
Oh Western Wind, when wilt thou blow?/ The small rain down can rain./ Christ that my love were in my arms/ And I in my bed again.
Éowyn gave a snort of surprise, and Faramir's head snapped up. He gave her a curious look.
"That's… uh… a bit racy for 500 years ago, isn't it?"
Faramir started to laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"You've reminded me of something my uncle said to my cousins: Why does every generation behave as if they are the first to discover the act of begetting? Do they never stop to ask themselves how their ancestors got to be ancestors?"
Éowyn gave a giggle, but at the same time could feel her cheeks burning. Act of begetting… Had Faramir really just said that? And how come a 500 year old song suddenly sounded like the sexiest song in the world?
~o~O~o~
AN: Sian asked for the scene where our brave knight chases a skunk round the garden. We don't have skunks in Berkshire, so I improvised (hopes Faramir would look suitably kindly on my inventiveness).