AN: Thank you so much to my anonymous guest reviewer for writing such a lovely review – I am still blushing! Hope I can live up to the same standard for the rest of the story.
She kissed him as if the kiss was the only thing that stood between them and the end of the world itself. But a voice interrupted them.
"So this is your Rohir lass?" A deep bass, sounding exhausted, but with a trace of grim humour. She let go of Faramir and turned to see a face, older, more lines, at one and the same time familiar yet different. His brother, she realised.
"Sir!" It was the lieutenant. "Sir, Captain-General, they've set fire to the garrison. Most of the party on this bank have retreated already, there's only a couple of companies of archers trying to protect your retreat..."
Boromir seemed to take stock of the situation for the first time since emerging from the river. Now he'd got past his initial amusement at finding his brother in a passionate embrace (and that having only just escaped drowning: clearly there was more to his shy, bookish brother than he'd given him credit for) he realised Faramir was close to collapse, and that the Rohir lass had in fact been holding him upright as well as kissing him passionately. There was a second survivor, lying on the bank at Faramir's feet. To his other flank, a third man crouched on his hands and knees, retching up river water. He looked up and down the bank.
"Manwe protect them," he whispered, bringing his right hand up to his breast. "Some retreat – four of us, that's all!" He paused for a moment. "Do we have horses?"
"Aye, Sir, if we double up," said Hatholdir.
"See to it that someone strong and competent looks after this man..." He pointed to the prostrate body beside Faramir. "Beregond, isn't it?" His brother nodded.
Hatholdir quickly sketched the situation. "We've pulled back to the small watch tower on the outskirts of the city, out of range of their ballistas. There's a barn and stables we can shelter from the storm in. Hopefully, between the storm and nightfall, the enemy won't try to cross the river now. We can regroup overnight, then send a sortie back tomorrow at dawn to assess the situation and look to defend this bank."
Hatholdir signalled and several men came forward to help. Éowyn put a foot into Windfola's stirrup and swung herself up and into the saddle. Reaching down, she caught Faramir round the forearm, hands locking to wrists as if in a warrior's salutation, only in earnest. Mustering her strength, she tugged him upwards while he used what little strength he had left to scramble up. She managed to pull him onto Windfola's back where he sat, clinging to her, dripping wet. With a nudge of her hands, she urged Windfola on, and set off behind Hatholdir and his men.
~o~O~o~
Alone at last in the narrow stall, though all too uncomfortably aware of the fact that anyone could hear them easily over the wooden partitions, Éowyn drew Faramir close to her.
"Take your clothes off, for Béma's sake. You're soaked and shivering." She let go of his hands, and started to strip her own clothes off.
"What are you doing?" Faramir whispered.
"What does it look like? You're half frozen to death and this is the quickest way of warming you up."
"But..." His voice trailed off. Oh gods, thought Éowyn, It's his bloody anguished I-must-do-the-right-thing look again. She raised an eyebrow and waited for what was to come. It didn't take long. "The letter... I meant everything I said. But... it still doesn't make this right. We shouldn't – I mean... I do... I love you. But tomorrow I have to ride to Gondor, and there's a task I will probably have to undertake for my father, and chances are I won't be coming back for a long time, and it will only make the pain of parting worse if we..."
In the time it had taken Faramir to stumble through this speech, she'd got the rest of her own clothes off and had bedded down on the straw, rolled up in several blankets and her cloak. She'd been relieved to note that though he claimed to be interested in doing the right thing, his eyes had lingered reflexively on all the right parts of her body once she was naked. But he was still standing there, looking as though he didn't quite know what to do next.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Faramir," she hissed at him, "When I said I needed to warm you up, I meant literally warm you up." She looked him up and down – he'd now got as far as dripping small clothes and looked distinctly like a half-drowned cat. "Apart from anything else, after the amount of time you've spent in that bloody river, when I finally get you out of your small clothes, I am expecting to find everything shrunk to the size of my pinkie, perhaps flanked by a couple of raisins. Just get out of your wet clothes and under the blankets with me."
Faramir's mouth formed into a slightly shocked "O", but he finally seemed to get the message. He peeled off the rest of his dripping garments, making a half-hearted attempt to wring them out, then hung them over the wooden partition. Then (to Éowyn's relief) he finally did as he was bid and crawled into the makeshift bed with her.
"Ah, fuck, you're like a bloody block of ice."
"Sorry."
"Oh shut up and just give me a hug, will you?"
Faramir's arms wrapped round her, and she let her own hands run the length of them, from wrists to shoulders, then round to his back. Frozen as he was, he still felt bloody good. Muscles and sinews beneath her fingers, and that wiry strength implicit in the way he held her tight against him. But he was also clearly in no state to do anything – she could feel him shaking, those deep, uncontrollable shivers that presage the drift into the cold slumber that is death's harbinger. She started to rub at his skin vigorously, trying to get the circulation going, and wound her legs about his in an effort to get as much of her skin as possible into contact with his. She knew from talking to the wise women who tended to the sick in Edoras that everything hung on that moment when he stopped shivering. If by then his skin was warm to the touch, it meant the shivers had stopped for the right reason; if they stopped and his skin was still cold, it meant his body had simply run out of energy to continue the fight. With a grim determination, she continued the massage.
In the flickering half light from the lamp which swung from a bracket on the wall, she could make out Faramir's face. It was drawn and pale, and his eyes had that slightly glassy look of one who is starting to lose the plot – and his eyelids were starting to droop. Keep him talking till he starts to warm up. The voice in her head even had the timbre of one of the goodwives back home.
"Faramir, what did you mean about a task your father would want you to undertake?"
Faramir blinked at her in confusion, then seemingly with some effort, managed to pull his attention back into the present moment. "Last night – the strangest of dreams." His voice was a bit slurred and unsteady. "I sometimes have dreams... closer to visions."
Éowyn stiffened. Did he really think this, or was he starting to hallucinate? She redoubled her efforts to restore his circulation, and decided that hallucination or prophetic vision, all that really mattered was to keep him awake and talking for the time being.
"So – the dream?"
"A voice commanded me to go to a place called Imladris – to seek for a broken sword and a hafling – and Isildur's bane."
"That sounds more like too much ale with your brother than a prophesy to me." Éowyn couldn't help herself.
At this, Faramir gave a low chuckle, which ended in a bit of a coughing fit, but Éowyn didn't care – she could have happily danced a jig at the thought that he still had the strength and the presence of mind to laugh.
"I suppose it does seem a bit insane. But I can assure you my brother and I did not overdo the ale, not on the eve of a battle. What do you know of the history of Numenor and Gondor?"
"Wasn't Isildur an ancient king?"
"The second king of Gondor. His father, Elendil, was cast up on the shore after fleeing the inundation of Numenor. I dream of that sometimes, too... the flooding of Numenor. A great wave, sweeping everything before it..." Faramir's voice trailed away, and Éowyn looked at his face again, only to see his eyelids had closed once more. She shook his shoulder quite roughly.
"So, Elendil and Isildur – how long ago was all this?"
Faramir's eyes opened again, sleepily. "Elendil fell alongside Gil Galad in the battle of Dagorlad at the end of the second age... so just over three thousand years ago."
"Bloody hell." Éowyn couldn't stop herself from blurting out a response. She couldn't imagine history stretching back that far. Eorl the Young had been, what, five or so centuries ago... That was the start of history, if you were from the Riddermark... But then she noticed Faramir's eyelids were drooping again. Keep him talking. "Why should all this matter?"
"I don't know – I talked to Boromir about it at length this morning when we broke our fast. He doesn't understand it either. The sword that was broken – that must be Isildur's sword. But we don't know what Isildur's bane is, or halflings, or indeed what manner of place Imladris is. But our father is immensely learned in lore, so we agreed that if either of us survived today, we should go and consult with him. But if the prophecy is a true one, then I suppose I will have to go to Imladris, where ever it is."
Somewhere in the course of this conversation, Éowyn realised that Faramir's skin no longer felt clammy and cold beneath her fingers. His hands and feet were still freezing, but his body had at last begun to warm up, and the shivering was easing, easing in the right way. Without realising it, she heaved an enormous sigh of relief.
"Anxious to be rid of me?" said Faramir, a certain wry tone to his voice.
"What? No! No, I just realised you'd finally warmed up a bit."
"Does this mean you'll finally let me sleep instead of cross-examining me about ancient history?" Éowyn lifted an eyebrow, and Faramir gave a half-smile in response. "Don't think I don't know what you've been up to. I've had to do it for my men before now – keep them talking to stop them freezing to death." He uncoiled one of his hands from behind her back, and Éowyn felt him draw his fingertips across her cheek. She turned her head slightly to press against his touch, and was repaid with a gentle brush of his lips against hers. "Thank you," he whispered very softly. Then he gave an enormous yawn. "Can I shut my eyes now?" Another faint smile crossed his face, and he nestled against her, breathing beginning to slow.
~o~O~o~
She woke to see the half moon through the small window high in the wall, just below the eaves. It was a waning moon, and she realised it must be well after midnight. She shifted slightly, and felt Faramir's chest against her back, no longer cool and clammy, but radiating heat. Suddenly it dawned on her that she had never slept with him before. All their... encounters... "dalliances" (she smiled at the thought that this was the sort of word Faramir would use)... Anyway, whatever name you cared to give them, they had always taken place in snatched half hours in daytime. This feeling of being cocooned in a small, snug world of their own was entirely new. It was a nice feeling, lying close against his warm body, listening to his slow steady breathing, in time with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His arm lay wrapped loosely round her waist
Drawn by the comfort of his body, she moved closer, only to feel him stir. He rolled towards her, still deep in slumber, and she realised that his body temperature was not the only thing that had recovered from the cold water. His cock pressed into her buttock, unmistakably firm. She couldn't help but recall the ribald conversations of her comrades about "morning glory" - it seemed that "morning" was something of a misnomer and could in fact mean any time in sleep. She couldn't stop a smile spreading across her face. Then all of a sudden it was as if her body caught up with her mind, overtook it and over-ruled it. She was naked, skin against his skin, not just the whole length of his body in contact with hers, but the whole length of his cock too, hard and promising. Desire flooded through her, a warmth, a searing heat and wetness growing between her legs, blood rushing through her veins to leave her heartbeat throbbing at the juncture of her thighs.
He needs rest, he's said he doesn't want this. She tried to shift away. But his arm tightened round her waist, and he murmured something in his sleep. She felt herself pulled back into contact with his cock. Oh Béma, a month is way too long. Oh, mother of the earth, I know just what I want to do with that... And oh, the aching emptiness, the emptiness he could fill. As if to undermine still further her rapidly failing resolve to let him slumber, she felt his hips move against her. Then she heard his voice, laden with sleep, but at the same time suffused with a radiant happiness.
"Nienna's mercy, what a way to wake." His breath stirred against her hair. She rolled over to face him, wrapping her thigh over his hip. "Oh Éowyn, my beautiful, brave Éowyn..." He pulled her close and brought his lips down on hers.
Eowyn wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling his head against hers. The kiss was almost too much to bear, filled with an burning need, a desire to fill the empty yearning space of the last month, the lost month. His lips, dragging across hers, his tongue, the feel of his skin on hers. She rolled onto her back, pulling him over on top of her, as if she had to have him there, had to twine her long legs about his slim hips. She ran a hand down his spine, then across his flank to come to rest on his buttocks, pulling him in close against her, closer still.
"Neither heaven's high vault, nor the rich earth below, nor the encompassing ocean is as beautiful as you." His voice was only a whisper, but yet so full of a yearning intensity. Then his mouth found hers once more, and Éowyn was lost in pure sensation.
The press of skin on skin. The roughness of a calloused palm drawn across a nipple. The brush of stubble against a sun burnished cheek. The feel of planes of muscle tensing between broad shoulders. The weight of his body on hers. And that need. The need for the length of him, for that heavy thickness, buried deep within her. The need to know he felt her enveloping liquid heat. The sound of his want, ragged, harsh, breathless, wordless noises lost in her skin, in her hair. The fullness of each thrust. The teasing loss of each retreat, bringing with it a burning desire for his return. An ever growing tension, coiling tight in her loins, growing and growing, encompassing her whole body. Then release – not gentle and sensual, but raging, overwhelming, blinding. All sense of the world lost, all sense of self lost with it. And afterwards, a complete unravelling – lying still, gasping for breath, pulse racing and roaring, unable to frame even single words.
How many minutes passed Éowyn was not sure. Eventually, her breathing steadied enough that she managed a noise – a long drawn-out, utterly inarticulate sigh. There was an answering, equally muffled noise from Faramir, his face now buried in the valley between her breasts.
"Oh Valar, if I have died and this is Manwe's place of rest, then I have died a happy man."
~o~O~o~
The morning sun through a chink in the eaves struck him full in the face. Dammit, I could do with another hour or so... Reluctantly, Boromir rolled over and cast his cloak to one side. Time to go and rouse the lovebirds. He made his way to the other side of the barn, peering round the wooden partition. To his surprise, he found himself consumed by an unaccustomed embarrassment.
He hadn't really seen her properly in the half light, dressed as she was in armour, a helm upon her head. But now, as she lay in sleep, he realised how incredibly beautiful she was, a beauty that seemed to snatch his breath away.His brother lay with his cheek pillowed on her breast, his dark hair spread across the pale smooth skin of her shoulder. He was cradled in her arms, her gold hair flowing like a cloak around them both. But even more than her beauty, the thing that took his breath away was the expression of peace on his brother's face. How many years is it since I saw the lines of worry around his mouth, on his brow, smoothed away like this? But at the same time as he was moved by his brother's expression, he was assailed by conflicting emotions. I shouldn't be here... Feeling like some sort of voyeur, he retreated back round the wooden partition, then called his brother's name.