Éowyn woke early on Boxing Day. Enough of this rich food and indolence! She knew that there would be hell to pay if she went back to her unit and couldn't keep up with the blokes in PT. Reluctantly, she hauled her arse out of bed (the air mattress on the sitting room floor), pulled her kitbag out off the cupboard and found a t-shirt, leggings and a sports bra. Air mattress deflated and stowed in the cupboard for the day (always a good idea to keep on Jane's good side), she let herself out the front door and set off for the river. The path along the river bank was ideal – 6 K up to the ring-road and back, keeping up a seven-and-a-half minute-mile pace all the way. Well, maybe easing up a little in the last couple of K.

Tomorrow, she thought, she'd maybe drag Éomer down to the park, and they could set up a beep test. She hated it, he hated it, but competitiveness always got them through. Maybe she could ask Faramir to join in… Then she cursed herself. She'd made a promise to herself last night that she was going to stop thinking about him the whole bloody time – which was another reason she'd gone for this run.

When she got back, she stretched out carefully in the hall before heading into the kitchen. She grabbed a glass of orange juice and a banana and stood at the counter eating it, then went and showered. As the hot water cascaded over her, she reflected that she hadn't heard the kids rocketing around. Maybe Jane had taken them out. Jeans… need jeans… was her next thought, so she went to the bedroom, remembering just in time to knock. No answer – looked like both blokes were up and about already, so she went in to root around in the chest of drawers and find some clean clothes to wear. The room looked like a bomb site. Éomer had actually bothered to pull his duvet back into place (military discipline will do that for a man), but the trundle bed was a disaster area. The pillow all askew, the duvet in a heap, a crumpled t-shirt half hanging off the edge. What a mess… remember this, Éowyn, every time you think about getting soppy. The man's a slob. For some reason, this thought didn't help as much as she might have hoped.

Finally clean and clothed, she made her way back down stairs and into the sitting room. The reason for the quiet kids became apparent – they sat, one either side of Faramir, snuggled up against him, watching Shrek. Faramir was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, his shoulders shaking. At the sound of the door, he turned his head.

"The bluebird… Her singing made the bluebird explode..." He continued to chuckle as the children shushed him.

Éowyn sat down in the armchair. The film unfolded. Having seen it more times than she could count, she actually gained more amusement from watching Faramir watch it than from the film itself. She also couldn't help but notice how comfortable the children seemed with him.

Shit. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about that. Definitely not thinking about that.

"Ah, this is where you all are!" Éomer appeared, filling the doorway. "You promised me a sword fight!"

"At the end of Shrek," said Éowyn. "It's nearly finished."

~o~O~o~

"Right, you know the rules," Éomer said to the children.

"We have to watch from inside the trampoline and we're not allowed out," chorused Kelly and Callum. The children kicked off their shoes and clambered into the fox pen, as Éowyn had nicknamed it. Éomer and Éowyn went over to the chicken-coop-that-didn't-hold-chickens, and unlocked it. Faramir caught sight of his own bow, arrows, side-sword and knives, tucked in the corner. But that wasn't what the siblings were interested in; instead they pulled out clothes, a sword each, and helms with mesh face-masks. And a box of chalk.

On the path that ran from the back of the house to the back gate, Éowyn chalked out a series of lines. Once she'd finished, she and Éomer put on the padded jackets and gloves. Éowyn turned to the kids and said "Kelly, you get to shout 'go' for the first bout. Callum – you can do it for the second."

She placed the helm on her head, and she and Éomer took their stances, both in a low guard (both right-handers, Faramir noted) beyond the outer chalk marks on the path.

"Go!" shouted Kelly.

They were fast – lightning fast. Both lunged forward, attacking high against the other's torso. But Éowyn was undoubtedly the faster of the two. A blur of motion, she landed a hit near Éomer's collar-bone, a whisper before Éomer's blade hit her head. Faramir frowned in puzzlement.

Where was the cautious sparring, the testing of one another's guard, the circling?

"One-nil to me," crowed Éowyn, triumphantly.

They took up their guards behind the chalk lines again. Then attacked again – Éomer feinted, Éowyn parried, forced him onto the back foot, then further back, and further still, until he tripped over the step at the edge of the patio and came down hard on his arse. She switched her sword to her left hand and offered him a hand up.

"Two-nil..."

Third time – this was pretty much a repeat of the first time, only Éowyn hit Éomer in the guts as his blade skittered off her shoulder. The two were almost simultaneous.

"You were on the attack, sis, I concede the point."

Faramir felt his mouth begin to twitch into a smile. And they thought he was ridiculous for his assault on the fox? This had to be one of the more absurd spectacles he'd seen. It was impressively fast, and both undoubtedly did know how to wield a blade. Another round, another pair of hits, Éowyn's (again) slightly before her brother's. This time he couldn't help an audible snort of laughter escaping. It was all very entertaining, and he could sort of see the point – it was a stylised, stripped down sort of fighting which tested only how fast you could lunge on the attack, nothing more. But ultimately, what was the point if you would both be dead at the end of it?

Éowyn heard his laugh. "What's so funny? Do you want a go? If you think you could do better?"

"No, no, you are most skilled with a blade. But… it wouldn't help you much in a real fight, if you landed a thrust first, only to die on the end of your dying opponent's counter-thrust."

Éowyn took her helmet off and smiled at him. "You've missed the point. This is sports fencing. Yes, it's kind of limited, but the whole point is speed on the attack. We can do some historical fencing if you think you'd like that better."

"And you could try out your Christmas present," Éomer added. They went back to the shed, and came back with Éowyn's strange white practice sword. Éomer had a similar one, but more akin to the side sword Faramir carried (or rather, didn't – he could still see it tucked in the corner of the shed, in its scabbard). Though Éomer's had a more elaborate guard than the simple cross-guard of Faramir's; an elaborately wrought basket surrounded his hand. Similarly Éowyn's sabre had a guard – a simple crescent shape from above the hand to the end of the pommel – which protected her knuckles. An interesting idea, Faramir thought, and made a note that if he ever got home, he must ask his armourer if he could create a similar hand-guard.

This time, they took their places on the lawn. They took up slightly different stances, Éomer with his hand in what Faramir thought of as "first guard", hand level with his ribs, blade extended upwards towards Éowyn's head. Éowyn, he noted, favoured a high guard, hand level with her face, blade extended downwards.

They began to circle, and this time were much more careful, testing, parrying, feeling out each other's preferred strokes. Then Éowyn committed, lunged forward, again at lightning speed. Another double hit, but again, Éomer conceded Éowyn had been faster. As the fight unfolded, the slightly different rules evened up the contest a bit – with his greater reach, Éomer landed more first hits.

But Faramir found himself fascinated by Éowyn's grace and speed, and the considerable strength she hid in that slender frame. He found himself remembering his swordmaster's words back when he was twelve. The whole point about weapons is they are a leveller – six inches of steel in the guts takes down the stronger, taller man just as efficiently as it does the smaller, lighter man. You need a good defence above all, then speed and precision and technique. Mind you, he wondered what effect the rather delightful way her golden braid of hair swung across her back as she lunged and parried would have on him were he to join in, not to mention her muscled, shapely thighs and slender waist. He suspected he would struggle to maintain his focus.

It turned out he didn't have long to wait. Éomer took his helm off and ruffled his dark blond hair, then said, "C'mon then, let's see your stage-fighting skills, or LARP-ing skills, or whatever they are," and held out the helm to Faramir.

"LARP-ing?" asked Faramir, puzzled once more. But he took the proffered helm and padded jacket, pulled on the gloves and took Éomer's strange white sword, testing it out.

The balance was right… so was the weight. He quickly worked his way through the winds, the figure of 8 motion that took the swordsman through all the cutting strokes, then tried a few lunges and thrusts. Éowyn had taken her helm off and he noticed how her eyebrows rise in faint surprise as she watched him. Good.

He'd noted a few things about her style. Perhaps the main point was that she didn't go for the legs much – and by the same token, tended to leave her own unguarded. With this in mind, he adopted the middle stance favoured by Éomer, hand just above waist level, elbow tucked in, sword point towards Éowyn's face – or rather, the mesh guard on the front of her helm. She adopted her favoured high guard. This, Faramir knew, should enable her to guard her legs – if she expected such a stroke. But he was pretty sure she wouldn't.

They circled. Faramir was a more cautious, considered opponent than Éomer. Much more cautious. Hardly surprising, had the siblings known his background – usually these days when he drew his sword, he fought in the knowledge that any mistake was likely to be his last.

"Come on, stop pussy-footing around," Éowyn said, with a laugh. She started to taunt him good naturedly. "Didn't your panto audiences want any action? You can't just spend all your time on the defensive. That'll look really rubbish." Her voice dropped to a growl. "C'mon, surely you want a piece of me?"

Faramir's breath caught for a moment. He certainly did want a piece of her, he thought, though probably not in the way she was meaning. His momentary inattention allowed her to dart forward and land a thrust firmly in his gut. He had been right. She did hit hard. Bloody hard.

"One-nil to me," she said, crowing.

They circled again. She came forward. Faramir almost didn't manage the parry, she was so quick. But he'd known when she came, she'd come fast and furious, and try to dart back almost as quickly. He followed his parry with a downward slice, rapping her across the thigh.

"Hey, that's below the belt," she complained.

"Real combat," Faramir replied. "I'd need to slow you down. That leg wound would do the trick nicely." Then, a touch more belligerently, "I'm having the point."

"Ha, Wyn, not quite the mild-mannered man you thought he was," Éomer laughed.

Éowyn circled him, blade held high. There was a coiled intensity to her stance – he'd riled her. This, too, was good.

She darted forward. This time, their blades locked near the hilts – or would have done had they been metal. Faramir seized the moment to grasp Éowyn's blade and slice her side.

"Hey, what is this? Sword fighting or gutter fighting." She sounded almost outraged by the effrontery.

"As I said… Whatever works. Whatever keeps me alive. Gutter fighting is good. Two-one… to me."

"If that's how you want it..." Éowyn launched in without warning, a dazzling array of cuts coming in from all directions, faster than a hawk could stoop. It took all of Faramir's defensive skill to ward them off. Then, to his amazement, she switched her sword to her left hand and feinted at his undefended side, and as he parried, off balance, she kicked his legs out from under him. The next thing he knew, he was staring up at the clouds, winded, with Éowyn's sword point at his throat.

"Gutter enough for you?" she said, a dangerous note in her voice. She pulled off her helm. Her blue-grey eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed with effort and maybe, just maybe, Faramir thought, hoped, something else. Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks after the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

"Was that one of your Krav Maga moves?" Éomer asked, his voice filled with approval. "Martial arts cross-over, I like it."

Faramir pulled his helmet off too, the better to take a deep breath. Éowyn stepped back and held out her hand, pulling Faramir to his feet. He held onto her hand a few heart beats longer than was necessary. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kelly bouncing up and down on the trampoline.

"A true knight would kiss the lady's hand," she squeaked in excitement.

Faramir grinned at her, then fixed his gaze back on Éowyn. He lifted her hand to his lips, then, at the last moment, turned it over and pressed the lightest of kisses to her palm, before reluctantly releasing it. All the time he watched her. Not his mind playing tricks – she was definitely flushed. He smiled, a smile for Éowyn alone, as he raised his hand to his breast and bowed.

"I have been vanquished by a truly worthy opponent. I yield, my lady."

Éowyn raised her sword in a return salute. Behind the blade, he could see her eyes glittering.

Then the children came scambling out of the trampoline, and the moment was gone. "Our turn, our turn..."

Éomer went to the shed and retrieved a pair of thick tubes – the thickness of stout branches. One red, the other blue. Seeing Faramir's look of surprise, he held the blue one out. Faramir took it in his sword-hand. There was a wooden stick down the centre of some sort of strange, very light material which, as he tested it against the palm of his other hand, gave very slightly. The outside was soft, the inside strong, with a simple cross guard above the hilt. Suddenly he felt a blow over his head – but it didn't hurt at all.

Éowyn stood, red "sword" in hand, with a wicked grin on her face. "They can't hurt themselves with these. Just as well, because they'll leather hell out of each other."

"That's siblings for you," said Éomer, with a laugh.

"Aye, it is indeed," Faramir agreed, with some feeling.

~o~O~o~

AN – a chance comparison of a couple of YouTube videos, one on modern Olympic Sabre, the other on sabre within Historical European Martial Arts, sparked the idea that Faramir, used to the notion that getting hit by a sword would kill you, would find sports fencing very funny (skilful, yes, awesomely fast, yes, but ultimately so divorced from the real thing as to seem a bit absurd).

Thanks again for the reviews. Earthdragon - no lightsabres, I'm afraid. Eowyn's sabre is a nylon replica of a late 18th century sabre - the ones I have in mind are made by Black Fencer, and have the reputation of being weighted and balanced just like the real thing, and are used for HEMA fighting (Historical European Martial Arts).