AN: Have you ever wondered how the mûmak came to be on the rampage?

The week since that fateful night by Anduin had passed in a haze. Faramir had returned to Henneth Annûn, accompanied by Éowyn. Life was, as ever, filled with preparations for the coming onslaught, a war which threatened to sweep down on them with the inevitability of gathering storm clouds. Already skirmishes took place almost daily, like the first gusts of wind presaging the deluge. For all his sadness, or perhaps because of his sadness, Faramir threw himself into his duty with a single-mindedness which left no room for anything else. Éowyn began to feel almost surplus to requirements, yet at the same time knew that without her he would founder and sink in the sea of his grief. After long days in the field with his troops, most nights he had stayed late writing dispatches, reading intelligence reports, plotting troop positions on maps, planning forays and ambushes. But tonight, finally reaching a standstill with exhaustion, he came to their tiny chamber not long after she had retired.

Faramir lifted the edge of the covers and slid into bed beside Éowyn. He paused, propped up on one elbow, and looked down at her.

"I am sorry I have been so distant these last days," he murmured.

"How could you not have been?" Éowyn's voice came in an answering whisper. She snaked her arms about his neck and drew him down towards her, expecting him to do as he had done for the last week: curl up chastely within the comforting cradle of her arms, his head pillowed upon her breast. She was slightly surprised then, when he dipped his head and kissed her. The kiss was almost tentative to start with, but rapidly grew in passion, then almost seemed to take on an edge of desperation.

Suddenly, all the bottled-up desire which Éowyn had pushed to the back of her mind over the previous days flared up. She ran her fingers through his dark hair and held his head as she kissed him back fiercely, then pulled his body hard against hers. She spread her legs wide and slid one hand over his arse, clutching him in tight against her.

Their coupling was hard, fast, messy, clumsy almost. Body parts in the wrong place, elbows into soft flesh, noses bumping together. It wasn't love-making, it was fucking – needy, desperate, fucking. Fucking full of a sadness beyond words. The searing heat of orgasm drove away the sadness for a moment, but then it flooded back. Faramir lay on top of her, his body stuck to hers with sweat, strands of his hair stuck to his forehead.

"By all that's sacred, I miss him so."

"I know."

Éowyn paused, unsure whether to say anything more. Maybe this was the wrong time. But then they had built a whole... whatever this was... on doing and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Fucking in the woods when they should have been tracking orcs. Needlessly falling out over Faramir's ridiculously over-developed sense of right and wrong. His proposal spurred by a fit of rage at his father. Nearly getting caught by Boromir in their uncle's garden, Faramir's clever tongue buried deep in her wem. Oh, fuck it! I'm just going to say it.

"I love you."

~o~O~o~

The next morning, Éowyn got the sense that Faramir had slept better. He seemed more in control, more himself, less some sort of puppet held up by the strings of his duty. He seemed somehow to be in the present moment rather than acting a part.

They were acting on reports of a large Southron force near the hidden caves, and had made their way through the woods to engage. The captain stopped in a small clearing, and signalled for his officers and NCOs to join him, unrolling a piece of parchment and pulling out a stick of charcoal with which to annotate it.

Faramir outlined his plan. The Southrons were moving along the forest track, and there was a place where the track zig-zagged steeply up hill, at one point narrowing as it curved round an immense outcrop of stone, the ground to the lower side falling away steeply.

"We place archers here..." He gestured to the sketch he was drawing on the ground pointing to places on the uphill slope to either side of the outcrop, "and here. The first set open fire as the van are just past the great cliff, then as they try to retreat and consolidate their position, the second, lower group of archers attack from behind."

"What of the higher path?" Damrod interjected.

"The scouts suggest that the main strength of the force is taking the lower path, which is not surprising, given that it's more direct. But you're right, we can't neglect the upper one, which is why I was planning on sending Éowyn, Anborn and a small group of archers to keep an eye on the upper path."

Éowyn nodded, and moved closer to look at the map Faramir was sketching on the ground. She and Anborn asked various questions about what courses of action would be appropriate should they encounter a secondary force, depending on its size, then, feeling they had a reasonable idea of what Faramir expected of them, they set off up hill with a dozen or so rangers.

It was a steep and awkward climb. There was no real track, just hints of goat and deer runs through the shrub between trees. Though the biting cold of earlier in the winter had eased, the air held a damp chill. Despite the chill, Éowyn was soon sweaty from the effort of beating her way through the undergrowth. The remains of last year's bracken and brambles, brown and seemingly lifeless after the winter, scraped at any exposed flesh.

Eventually they reached the upper track, and were able to move more rapidly, though each bend had to be approached with caution in case they found themselves face-to-face with the enemy. About half a league along the track they found the place Faramir had mapped out for them; a scar in the hillside where a landslip had cleared the trees. At this point, the path was reduced to a messy scar of boulder strewn mud. Equally importantly, the bare slope above gave a vista over the approaches to the awkward section. Once hidden in the trees on the edge of the landslip, the rangers would have the ideal vantage point from which to pick off the enemy, who would be slowed by the bottleneck of the boulders obstructing the path.

They struggled up the muddy, rocky slope. Recent rain had left it slippery underfoot, treacherous. But before too long they were all in position.

"Do you think we'll be able to hear the Lieutenant's bugle call from here? How will we know if the main engagement has started?" Anborn whispered.

"I'm not sure. I think we should hear it, but it's a long way, and the mist hanging lower down the slopes damps the sound," Éowyn replied, then found her mind drifting off to a day nearly a year earlier, caught on a wooded slope not unlike this one, in a thick mist. She couldn't help the grin that came to her unbidden, but rapidly got herself back under control. Now was not the time to lose concentration. They settled down to wait. And wait. And wait.

~o~O~o~

"Something should have happened by now," Anborn hissed.

"Maybe it has and we just didn't hear the bugle. No matter, the Captain will send a scout when he needs us, or we return, as agreed, when the sun gets within an hour or so of the horizon."

Éowyn's words were cut short as she caught a sound on the air – not the long-awaited bugle call, but a faint noise of footfalls, of jingling harness and gear. There were enemy troops on this upper path. But how many?

The unspoken question was answered a moment later as about a score of Haradrim came into view around the curve in the track. Éowyn waited until the band were directly below the trees in which the rangers were hiding, then gave the signal to loose their arrows. All around her, bows sang, and a deadly hail of arrows rained down on the men below. Several fell; the rest turned and fled back down the track.

To Éowyn's horror, Anborn broke cover, followed by the four men closest to him. The young ranger gave a loud cry.

"Get the rest of the bastards!"

"Anborn, you stupid fucker, come back here," Éowyn yelled as loudly as she could, but to no avail. Anborn might as well have been struck deaf.

The five of them skidded down the mud slope in a clatter of stones, then set off along the path in hot pursuit of the Haradrim, swords drawn and ready. Éowyn felt that she had no choice. She and the remaining rangers followed, though not quite so precipitately. They had almost reached the sharp bend in the track when, with another loud yelp, Anborn reappeared, running at full tilt, closely followed by his fellow idiots.

"Mûmak," he gasped. His eyes were wide with fear. Caught in the heat of the moment, Éowyn struggled to understand the obscure Sindarin word. Then, at the same instant she remembered its meaning, the beast itself came lumbering round the corner at a canter. It was the biggest animal Éowyn had ever seen. Huge, grey, sagging, wrinkled skin covered an enormous frame. Its nose, like a snake, waved furiously between fearsome pointed tusks, sharp sabres of ivory as long as a man was tall. Its ears flapped as it ran, its eyes small and red and furious. On its back was a structure almost like a miniature guard tower, fashioned out of wood and cloth, in which stood two men with curved bows. A third perched on the beast's neck, obviously steering the beast, though Éowyn was uncertain as to how much control he exerted. For an instant she froze, rooted to the spot by sheer terror.

Beside Éowyn, Halvir, probably the most skilled bowman in the platoon after Faramir himself, turned side on to the beast in the classic archer's pose. He had four arrows held ready between his fingers. One after another, as fast as flames licking through dry tinder, he nocked them to the string, drew, and let them fly. One after another, they found their mark, though not perfectly. The first killed one of the bowmen, the second speared the rider through his shoulder, causing him to lurch to one side, but not unseating him. The third glanced off the beast's flank; its skin seemed to be as tough as bronze. But there were some soft spots – the third struck the beast just in front of its ear, and hung there. With a huge trumpeting bellow, the mûmak threw back its head and shook it, desperately trying to detach the agonising dart. This movement did succeed in throwing the rider, but one foot seemed caught in some sort of stirrup attached to a band round the animal's neck. The man, his red and gold robes flapping round his head, hung upside down by one leg. The enraged beast was now completely out of control, and seemingly intent on charging down the archers who had caused it such pain.

"Run for the river," yelled Eowyn, "draw it away from the ambush site." Without further ado, all of the rangers started to race down hill, followed by the mûmak. Éowyn sprinted through the brush, hurdling fallen branches, not even noticing as brambles and twigs whipped her arms. Behind her she could hear the thundering footfalls of the rampaging animal. She realised that she had got separated from Anborn and his group by a stream bed which was rapidly steepening into a narrow gorge.

"Bugger," she managed to mutter in between gasps for breath. He goes and annoys the blasted thing, but it ends up on my side of the gorge.

The situation looked dire. The mûmak was gaining on her, steadily. Éowyn was on the brink of exhaustion. Her side was on fire, gripped by an agonising stitch. Her leg muscles were cramping. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging and half blinding her. And she could hear that snorting and trumpeting getting ever closer. She snatched a quick glance over her shoulder, only to realise that within a few strides the beast would be able to trample her into the ground. In desperation she turned her gaze back down hill, and put every last ounce of strength she had into sprinting.

Suddenly a blow like Morgoth's great hammer Grond hit her from the side. Winded, she crashed to the ground, certain she had been hit a glancing blow by one of the animal's feet. She screwed up her eyes and braced herself for the finishing stroke, sure that any instant she was going to be crushed.

"Wyn, are you alright?" She opened her eyes to see Halvir sprawled to one side. The mûmak crashed onwards, down through the trees. The fierce blow that she thought had been one of its huge feet had in fact been her fellow ranger, tackling her to the ground, his shoulder hitting her lower ribs. He had managed to throw them both clear of the beast's path.

She tried to speak, but for a moment couldn't say anything as she struggled to get air back into her lungs. Eventually, in more of a wheeze than any sort of coherent speech, she managed to grunt out her thanks. Halvir got to his feet, then reached out a hand to pull her back up.

~o~O~o~

Mablung sat, not far from the strange halfling creatures they'd rounded up earlier in the day. He was within earshot of the captain; he liked to know what was going on. Anborn was telling the captain of his encounter with the black squirrel with no tail, or so he half-jokingly called it. Only half-joking, though, for it was clear that Anborn was unsettled and felt the creature to be of fell purpose. Two things were apparent to Mablung, as he watched those around him in his characteristically shrewd way. The first was that the hobbits were concealing something: they started when Anborn mentioned his squirrel, but then steadfastly attempted not to give anything away, looking at the wall of the recess or at the blankets on the low couches they had been offered as though walls and blankets were the most fascinating things they had yet seen on their travels. The second thing was that there was something Anborn was not telling Faramir.

Faramir picked up on this, of course. Mablung didn't even know why he was surprised. His captain picked up on everything.

"Where are Éowyn and the rest of the group of archers you were with at the start of the day, Anborn?"

Mablung just about made out Anborn's muttered words – something about the mûmak, getting separated, fleeing down hill on opposite sides of a river gorge. Anborn couldn't look Faramir in the face. For his part, the captain became ashen-white: he held it together, but Mablung could see it was a struggle. Then, as if on cue, the door which led from the steps swung open. Pushing her hood back from her face, Éowyn stepped in.

In three or four strides, the captain crossed the hall to her. He took both her hands in his and raised them to his lips. Mablung could see him talking to her in a low voice – from his face, he guessed that the captain was giving the shield-maiden something of a dressing down for scaring him so badly. Though it looked as though the shield-maiden had a thing or two of her own to say in response, high spots of colour appearing on her cheeks. To Mablung's surprise, Anborn suddenly came up and interrupted the tender moment. Under the pretext of hanging his cloak on the pole near the door to dry, Mablung moved within earshot.

"... Sorry sir, completely my fault... broke cover... didn't realise there was a mûmak..."

Faramir's look of ashen fear of a few tens of minutes earlier had now been replaced by a look of white fury. He summoned Damrod over, and said something very quietly to him. Mablung swallowed. That sort of quiet fury was the worst sort. Damrod nodded curtly to Faramir and turned to Anborn.

"Come with me, laddie," the Lieutenant said, gesturing to the far end of the cave.

Faramir turned back to Éowyn and grasped her hands once more.

"I am sorry my love, for my precipitate accusations. It's just... if I were to lose you as well... I don't think I could stand it." His voice sounded choked, muffled as if he fought to keep control of it.

"Don't take it out on Anborn," Éowyn replied, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Yes, he cocked it up, cocked it up big time. But punish him as if it was someone else he had put at risk, not me. Don't let your feelings for me dictate a harsher punishment than he deserves..."

Faramir nodded his assent, then caught sight of Mablung out of the corner of his eye and glared at him. Mablung decided the time had come to make himself scarce and made his way back to the corner where the hobbits were billeted. At first he thought they were both asleep, but then he gave a start as the slightly stouter (or perhaps less emaciated was a better description) of the two spoke to him.

"Surely the captain hasn't brought his wife out here into all this danger?"

Mablung almost blurted out that's not his wife, but bit his tongue in the nick of time.

"The captain's wife is a soldier same as the rest of us – very brave woman, and probably the best here with a sword, saving the captain himself." He told himself the lie was justified; somehow he wasn't comfortable with even a passing stranger thinking the shield-maiden was some sort of camp follower. But then it struck him that he wasn't really lying at all. In all the ways that mattered, the captain and the lady were as good as married.

~o~O~o~

Éowyn lay on her side, Faramir curled round her back, his hand idly stroking her hair. He had finally come to the end of his lengthy exposition of the day's events. For many moments she did not speak. She felt as though she had been struck dumb by his information. Eventually, she managed to frame her thoughts sufficiently to say something, though her words sounded idiotic to her ears, merely repeating as if by rote what Faramir had just told her.

"So this halfling carries the ring the dark lord made in ages past, a ring so powerful that with it he can enslave the whole world? And that tiny creature intends to go to Mordor and throw it into the fiery mountain, to save us all? And he's going to do it accompanied only by his... his... gardener?" She wriggled round in his arms so she could see his face, only to find a small smile playing about his lips. He gave a quiet chuckle.

"When you put it like that, it does seem like the most absurd misadventure in the history of the world. Were I alone facing all this, I would probably think us all doomed, if this is our best, indeed, our only hope. We probably are all doomed. But I have you to live for, so I refuse to believe it is so." He pressed his lips to hers just for a moment.

"And the rest of us? What part can we play?" Éowyn asked him.

"Fight on. Fight on until either the halflings complete their quest against all the odds, or the war is lost. There is nothing else we can do. We must gamble all on one last throw of the die. But win or lose, live or die, I will face what is to come by your side. And if death is our fate, we will come before Mandos together, hand in hand."

Thanks as always to my guest reviewers. Hopefully this will have satisfied your desire for Éowyn to be a bit more involved in the action (though I'm glad you found having her observe from the sidelines was also interesting) – and of course, it should be fairly non-stop action from here on in. (Perhaps not as much hobbits as you were hoping for, but I didn't want to simply re-write the "Herbs and stewed rabbit" and "Window on the west" chapters straight, but from Éowyn's viewpoint. I wanted to do something slightly different, but which fitted in with the book. And I am so flattered by the fact that one of you says you have fallen in love with my Faramir. I confess I fell in love with him more decades ago than I want to admit, largely driven by the "Window on the West" chapter in the original. But I did fall in love (and in lust) with him all over again writing Flower of Ice and Steel, and I think I still feel that way.