Notes: Once again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. I'm glad you liked the reading scene...here's more of it!

Just to let you all know (so that you're not surprised) there are 20 chapters in this story. Worked out nicely, don't you think? Also, as regarding Eowyn: It's a little complicated (no surprise there!), but my idea on Eowyn is that she was just very confused, and very scared. You'll see a lot more of her POV in the next few chapters, but in general she just doesn't want to think about Aragorn, her life, or her attraction to Faramir. She hides in her fear, protecting herself from more pain by refusing to open her heart. Until...well, you know. :-)

Chapter Fifteen: Frum Gal, Wine

Faramir's fingertips touched the door lightly, resting on the wood, feeling the grain. In the touch warmth met cold, living met dead. Like so many times before, he was confronted with an obstacle in his path, itself surmountable, yet representing to him the insurmountable obstacles that lay beyond. He turned to Kitha, hovering behind him, and his glance fell on her sharply, through a fringe of hair. "You locked them in?" he asked quietly, yet in sharp tones. "I thought you did not want to scare them?"

Kitha shrugged nervously and, Faramir thought, a little helplessly. "They were so upset, my Lord, and we were not sure if they would try to escape us."

Faramir shook his head and turned back toward the door. His hand had not left the rough grain of the wood, and now he waited, as if his hand would know the right moment to enter. When Thailan had first told him of the difficulty they were having and asked him, grudgingly at disturbing him, there had been no doubt in his mind that he should come, but now, standing outside the door, he was suddenly unsure. What if he didn't have the words that were needed and he only made the situation worse? Why had he been so sure he could soothe them…why had he trusted in his own ability?

Yet, as the moment stretched longer and Kitha moved anxiously behind him, he knew he had to try. After all, he could sense their emotions as easily as his own—they wrote them on their faces and Faramir, who was experienced in reading practiced men's thoughts, had no trouble distinguishing theirs. In any event, he told himself resolutely, I can understand them better than any of these women can. Without moving his hand he turned the key in the lock and slipped inside the door, his hand coming in last, as if unwilling to leave the rough wood.

He had expected to be confronted by their faces, hostility or perhaps confusion showing, but his first glance fell upon their backs, for they were both staring out the window. At the sound of the door, however, Ricah's head turned and his eyes flashed at Faramir, showing all of the emotions Faramir knew were uppermost in his turbulent mind. As Faramir had guessed, he held his silence, and Kamir broke the momentary pause.

"What do you want?" the little boy asked, turned and spreading his hands against the stone of the wall. "Why won't you let us out?" His voice challenged Faramir, and Faramir was surprised at the degree of hatred in his voice.

"I am sorry they locked the door," Faramir said softly, not moving from his position near the door. He understood innately that though his words needed to be soothing, they also needed to be straightforward and honest, with none of the sweet subtlety the woman had been using. The fact that the boys did not want to stay and take their care already told Faramir that they were not used to coddling. So, his words those of a man speaking to another man, Faramir said, "You know they can't let you run the streets."

"Why not?" Kamir burst out before Ricah could shush him. Faramir raised an unconscious hand to his shoulder, rubbing the healing skin lightly. "Because you have no food," he said, still in the tone of an adult talking to another adult. "You have no one to provide for you. The women here can give you food and beds until they figure out what to do for you. I know you don't want to stay here, but—"

"We were doing fine by ourselves," Ricah said, his voice flat and his face betraying less emotion that Faramir had thought it would. "Let us go…we won't be any trouble."

"They can't," Faramir said, shrugging his shoulders.

Kamir's face exploded into scream. "What do you mean they can't?" he yelled, stepping forward, and for his short stature, he looked quite menacing indeed. "I hate you! I hate this place! I want to go home!"

Faramir's forehead creased the tiniest bit, and he dragged helplessly at the store of things to say to a child. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that whatever rote expression he used would do nothing, and honesty would be the best path, but he ignored it and said, soothingly, "It'll be alright…"

Whatever Faramir had expected Kamir to do next, it was not to pick up the clay jug that sat on the table, smash it against the hard edge, and hurl it at him with all his strength. But that was what the boy did, and Faramir just had time to raise his hands before the broken pottery smashed against his forehead, just above his right eye, and a trickle of blood seeped down to his eyebrow. Faramir's gasp was involuntary, but the slice of pain across his forehead and the red on his hand as he brought it down startled him, and for a moment he forgot where he was and what he was trying to do.

Kamir was reaching for another piece of the pottery, triumphantly surveying Faramir, when Ricah grabbed his brother roughly by the arm and said in a tight, harsh voice, "Stop that! What do you think you are doing…" he paused, getting the best of his anger, and then almost whispered, "Father would be so ashamed of you."

Ricah's eyes met Faramir's as he looked up, and Faramir saw clearly through the boy's eyes now a change of feeling. Is this what the streets have done to my little brother? his eyes asked. If so, perhaps I should listen to this man. He stepped forward slightly, still holding his brother's arm and asked, "Are you alright?"

Faramir nodded, raising his sleeve to wipe the blood off his forehead. The cut was a mere scratch, and would heal cleanly, probably without a scar. "You have quite an arm," he said to Kamir, aware that he was only speaking what was in his heart now, and knowing that he would not try again to pacify them by sweet words. "Did that make you feel better?"

Kamir's eyes stared up at him defiantly for a moment and then the boy's tousled head lowered, bowing in shame. His outburst, Faramir sensed, would not have been tolerated had his parents still been living, and he could tell it grieved the boy, young as he was, to have given in to his impulse. There was a moment of silence, in which Ricah let go of Kamir's arm, and then Faramir said, "Will you not at least tell me the name of your father?"

"Japhalen," Ricah said softly, the name given as an apology and a signal that he would cooperate now. He crossed his arm across his small chest and heaved a sigh. "He died with Lord Faramir." His head snapped up, suddenly, and he said, "Please, sir, I don't know who you are, and we'll stay here now, but please don't separate us. I'd—we'd rather be on the streets than go to different houses." His words were a plea, and Faramir did not let them go unnoticed.

"Of course not," Faramir said, stepping forward for the first time and again raising a hand to wipe his forehead of blood. "I do not know what will happen to you, now, for many things will be decided when the King returns. But you must trust us, and you must do as the women say. They want to help you, although…" he looked around as if suspicious one of the women of whom he spoke was listening. "They can overdo it, a little."

Faramir sensed the change in the boys' emotions, and he knew they would try now, but he also knew the nature of boys. Stooping slightly, he said in a friendly tone, as from one soldier to another, "Personally the gardens are where I like to go. The women don't like to go out there, especially when it's cold, and there's lots of room to walk and run around."

Kamir's face flashed a smile; it was only for a second, but it was there. "When can we go out, sir?" For a moment there was panic in his eyes, as he said, "They will let us out, right?"

Faramir smiled, softly but wholeheartedly, and nodded. "They will indeed. And you can call me—Faramir," he finished, realizing too late what effect his name would have on them. For a minute he was not sure if them would hate him or love him, but his fears were ended as their faces turned radiant with delight.

"Captain Faramir?" Kamir asked, putting emphasis on 'Captain'. "You're the real Captain Faramir?"

Ricah stepped forward and smiled at him. "You led the charge," he said in soft tones. "You are the greatest Captain Minas Tirith has ever seen." He paused and then added, "That's what my father said," as if that would seal the importance and veracity of the words.

Faramir smiled again, and he put his hand on the doorframe to feel something solid. "Thank you," he said. "Your father did a very fine job himself. Very fine indeed." He didn't tell them that he had never met their father, who had obviously been one of the soldiers and not a ranger, because it made no difference. Japhalen had fought under him, and therefore he was one of his brethren, sealed in blood and united under one banner and one goal. These boys who knew so little of many other things understood that perfectly.

"I must go now," Faramir said, standing and wiping his forehead. "I'll see you in the garden."

Eowyn had almost made up her mind to return to her room. She stood irresolutely, wringing her hands together in agitation. How could Faramir do this to her? He had stood her up before they had even gotten past the initial stages of friendship, and she was angry with him. So he thought he could simply set a meeting and then blow it off? He thought she would simply wait for him to show up, as if she had nothing better to do? Or perhaps he knew she didn't have anything better to do and wished to make fun of her? Her blood began to heat at the indignity of her situation. She had been sitting in the little room for the past hour and a half, trying to amuse herself with her own thoughts.

She thought with disgust of the plan she had set out in her mind of how she would begin Faramir's lessons in Rohirric. She had decided to start with some vocabulary, a little bit of simple grammar, and progress from there; now she was ashamed of having thought he would want to learn her language at all. He had obviously been saying the words for some reason that she could not fathom, and he had never wanted to learn at all. Somehow, and she chastised herself for thinking even this, she had not imagined him to be the sort of person to say empty words simply for effect. But she could be wrong about anyone, she reflected, thinking of more painful memories.

She sat down again on a chair before the fire and dropped her head into her hands. The tears came grudgingly, and she tried to stop them, but she couldn't. She cried even more at her own weakness, her own inability to control her emotions. What was happening to her? she wondered vaguely. She had once been able to keep all her fears and emotions inside, tightly locked up. Now they poured out of her at the smallest notice, and she was ashamed that they were about such a slight thing as a snub from a man she hardly knew.

"Forgive me, my Lady, I—" she raised her head at the voice, startled by its closeness, and her eyes met those of Faramir. He looked surprised, at first, and then ashamed and grieved. "Oh, forgive me," he said again, but this time his words were full of pain he couldn't hide—remorse at himself, and she knew he sensed at once the cause of her tears. "I am so very late…I…" he trailed off, and she knew he didn't know what to say to her. She felt her cheeks stain and she rose quickly to greet him, brushing a hand on either cheek.

"I—it's alright," she said awkwardly, finding that she herself didn't know what to say, and wishing desperately that she had managed to control herself for only a little longer. "I don't know what came over me." She suddenly noticed the quill and ink he held in his hands, and the book under his arm. Her eyes looked up at him inquiringly, and then she noticed the angular cut above his eyebrow. "Oh!" she said, her embarrassment gone in a moment of concern. "What happened?"

He set the book and writing implements down on the table carefully, raising a hand to his forehead. He winced as he felt the dried blood and smiled lightly at her. "I went to visit Kamir and Ricah, which is also why I am so grievously late. They were a bit upset…and unhappily for me, there was a clay vessel on the table. Kamir has quite an arm."

Eowyn gasped and shook her head. "He should be punished!"

Faramir shrugged. "He is young, and he has had a very trying life recently. He should not have done it, but he was acting out of anger and frustration at being kept here." He looked down at the table and smiled again. "I knew it would make me even later, but I could not come without finding paper, pen, and a book to teach with." His deep eyes looked up to hers, and he said, "I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting."

Eowyn felt a stab of guilt at having thought such terrible things of him, and she recalled very briefly that somehow she was always assuming his guilt and he was always disproving her. But then her mind dwelt again on her tears and she felt the flush creeping to her cheeks again. "It is no matter," she said more curtly than she meant and sat down at the table. For a moment Faramir stood, knowing in his heart that her tears had been because she thought he had abandoned her, and yet he sensed that that had been only the tip of the iceberg, and again he felt a desire to know who the man was that had captured her heart so completely. He tried to dismiss the feelings of sorrow and even, he realized to his discomfort, jealousy.

"Well," he said softly, making a huge effort to get away from his reflections and not think of her hair dripping over her shoulder and hanging down to form a golden shawl about her body, "I suppose we should start with the alphabet." His words were so frank and natural that, though she had readied herself for some discomfort at being so unlearned, she found there was no judgment in him. He took a sheet of paper out of the stack and dipped the quill into the ink to write. She watched his hands closely as he wrote the letters down, unconsciously marveling at the way his hands, scarred and calloused and seeming terribly strong even after his illness, moved so fluently with the pen. She had the feeling that, though she see the same hands handle a bow, a sword, or any other tool, this was the tool that his hands had been made for.

He held the sheet out to her and she looked at the small letters gracing the top of the page. "A," she smiled, pointing to the first one. Her voice was touched with humor, but shy and unsure, as if she did not know if he would accept her slight knowledge as funny or pathetic. He smiled back at her and nodded.

"My work is already over!" he said, raising a hand to rub his shoulder. "But do you know the names of the others?" It took Eowyn only a very short time to learn the letter's names, and then he set her to copying them. That was a little harder, but the knack came with practice. On her fourth 'q' she felt Faramir's hand come over her own and hold the pen with her. She looked up in surprise to find his head bent over the page. "You are holding it too tightly," he said in the husky, gentle voice she found strangely unsettling. "Let it loose and let the letter glide off your pen." The muscles in his hand moved and they penned the letter together, slowly and carefully curving the tail of the 'q'. Her eyes did not leave his face, and suddenly his eyes came up to meet hers.

Time stopped. Eowyn was aware of his hand still on hers, calloused and hard, yet supple and gentle. His eyes were so close, and she could feel his body tensing next to hers, ready to move should she make any action. Suddenly she didn't want to—she wanted to stay like that forever, near his warm, shaky breath and his strong body. But she felt his hand leave hers and he drew back, looking down for a long moment. Neither of them spoke as he raised a hand to touch his forehead, mostly, she thought, to hide his eyes from her. Her own gaze fell to the paper and the 'q' that was drying.

"Shall we move on?" he asked, his voice low, in the back of his throat. She nodded mutely and took up the quill again. She tried to focus on the letters once more—tried to forget the moment of electricity between them. But she was, like it or not, painfully aware that he was close to her and his breath was touching the air beside here. Her letters grew more and more sloppy as her thoughts were dragged farther away from the paper and ink, and before she could stop herself—or was it after much effort?—she was thinking of another man's arms, strong and protective, around her, and his voice telling her that the world would not harm her. It was like a comfortable garment, these thoughts of Aragorn, and she struggled to drag her mind away from the man beside her, his soft, commanding voice, his gentle hands, and his unfathomable eyes.

"My Lady?" Faramir's voice was soft, but there was something in it that brought Eowyn back and caused her to look at him. His eyes held nothing, as far as she could tell—no annoyance or confusion. But she knew, just the same, that he had guessed there had been a man in her life. She didn't know how or when, but somehow she knew he understood her silence when speaking of her past. It aggravated her, and she turned her head away purposefully, her eyes falling on the sheet of parchment in front of her.

Faramir lifted another quill and dipped it in the ink, and she noticed his reluctance to take her pen again. He pulled the paper toward him and said in a level voice, "You must craft the 'w' a little more lightly. You cannot have all your ink dripping to the page." He focused his attention on the letters he was writing, trying to forget the fact that she was utterly consumed with whoever He was. He forced himself to remember that he had nothing to do with her past, and he had no right to hope she could forget her past and have anything to do with him.

His thoughts took up a glimpse of a second, and he was still writing a proper 'w' when Eowyn suddenly said, "Oh—are you left handed? I have never seen a left handed man."

Faramir glanced up at her and saw her looking inquiringly at him. "No," he smiled, setting the pen down. "But with this shoulder…" he gestured to his right shoulder as he trailed off, and she remembered his wound.

"Oh, of course," she said. She paused for a moment and then said, "But you write so well with your left! I cannot imagine what your hand would look like should you use your right."

Faramir smiled and shrugged. "I had to teach myself to write with my left when I was injured a few years ago. A captain cannot write commissions and orders without a good hand, and I would trust no secretary with all my orders. But…" he smiled a little lopsidedly and raised his right hand to the table. He stretched his fingers slowly, then lifted the pen and dipped it in ink. His forehead creased with effort as he wrote, slowly, but Eowyn's eyes widened at his script. The difference between his left handed script and his right handed script was like the difference between his reading last night in the common and his reading in elvish. Eowyn first felt admiration and then a pang of envy.

"I should love to write so well!" she said before thinking, and then she blushed. "I mean—it is beautiful."

Faramir laid the pen down and rubbed his shoulder with a grimace. "It came of years and years of tutors," he said, likewise not thinking. Then he looked down and smiled. "Someday, you will write like that too. But you must practice," he said as a way to turn the subject, and he pushed the paper toward her. "Now try again, my Lady."

"Eowyn," she said suddenly. "Please."

Faramir stared at her in silence for a long moment before dipping his head slightly. "Eowyn." Her name sounded rough on his tongue, and to make up for it he said, "Please call me Faramir."

"Faramir," she said. Then: "I should return to my room now, Faramir."

Faramir smiled and stood with her, but as she reached the door he called out, "Eowyn?" She stopped and turned to face him. He stood with one hand on the table, and said, "You have taught me no Rohirrim."

Eowyn felt a pang of some emotion she could not place touch her heart, but she smiled. "Frum gal, wine," she said. "At first light."

Notes: I couldn't resist the whole left-handed thing! Let me know what you think. Up next: Eowyn spies, despairs, and receives a beautiful gift.

I make no claims about my Rohirrim; 'frum gal, wine,' literally means 'first light, friend.' So please forgive me if you happen to be an expert on the Rohirric language!