A/N: At last...the chapter we've all been waiting for! I am going to try to update every other day (or every other two days) or so. The updates shall be rapid and timely, that I promise you. And as for you people who add this to your alert list without reviewing (the writer pauses and gives all mentioned a steely glare)...well, you don't get any cookies. :) Enjoy!

Chapter 3

It was with a cold, steely glare in her eyes that Éowyn entered the door of the stable. She hadn't realized until scouring half the castle for her sword that her brother had smelled like a horse. As if he'd come directly from the stables for supper.

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that he'd hidden her sword in the stable, but considering the look on Éomer's face as he'd tried to remember its location, and taking into account the fact that she couldn't find it in any of the other places he'd mentioned, he probably had.

Lifting her skirts so as not to dirty them in the flying dust of the stable floor, Éowyn ducked a low beam and breathed in her favorite smell: the musty scent of horse. It was darker in the stable than it had been outside, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. While everything still appeared black, she heard a noise like someone scraping a knife across a stone; a grinding, grating noise. She was about to ask who was there, but stopped before a word escaped her lips.

Perhaps it's the person who's responsible for the disappearance of those horses, she thought with a thrill. Now Éomer can't possibly call me over-exaggerating and dramatic. Not if I catch the thief in the act.

Holding a hand to her eyes and stepping into the darkness, Éowyn barely made out the outline of a stall before her. Sidestepping that, she plunged toward the source of the sound—only to pause for direction and find that it had disappeared. As her eyes adjusted and she looked around, she could see no one.

How strange.

She walked to her horse's stall and searched for her sword. Nothing. With a grim, set expression and thoughts of revenge directed at Éomer, she went further into the stable and set about searching his mare's stall.

A glint of light caught her eye. She grinned in triumph as she dislodged her beautiful sword from under a saddle blanket where her brother had so carelessly left it (or hid it?). It was still in its sheath, which was made of a smooth brown leather and laced with gold patterns that twisted like sand in the wind.

I wonder why Uncle won't tell me her name, Éowyn wondered pensively, drawing the sword and testing its weight contentedly. Perhaps he wants me to give her one of my own.

The stable door creaked, and Éowyn stiffened. Two men entered, their silhouettes giving her no clue as to their identity, save for the fact that they were tall and lean. Pausing at the entrance, the shorter of the two pointed at a stall that held a dark horse. Éowyn stared. The only horses that had disappeared had been black or of a dark color. She gripped her sword hilt tightly and edged toward the door of the stall.

Éomer's mare nipped her sleeve gently, as if to ask what she was doing. Éowyn ignored her and crept forward, watching to see if the men made any sudden movements. One turned, Éowyn catching a glimpse of his face as he did so.

He's not one of the stable hands, she thought, swallowing the sudden fear that rose in her heart. I've never seen him before in my life.

They were whispering about something. In her experience, whispering always meant secrecy, and secrecy in a place where something had been stolen was quite definitely suspicious.

If they are the horse-nappers, Éowyn thought grimly, taking another careful step forward, then they'll get more today than they bargained for.


When Faramir and Amrothos reached the stables, they found it as quiet as a tomb. Faramir stepped inside first, hesitating only to let his eyes correct to the darkness of the stable. It amazed him that Gondor and Rohan differed even in the design of their stables, Gondor's being large and full of light, and Rohan's being smaller, musty, and dark.

It was Amrothos who spotted their horses, whispering the news to his cousin. The dark Gondor horses were taller and more impressive than their stocky Rohirric relations, but it was obvious that the horses of Rohan were bred with strength and cleverness in mind.

However as they crept slowly toward the back of the stable where their horses were stalled, Faramir had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him. Then he wondered why he and Amrothos were creeping and whispering. The silence, he realized, was deafening, and it felt like a sacrilege to break it with even so much as a footstep. He wondered if he should call out to the stable hands to alert them of his presence, but before he had even opened his mouth, he heard a clatter from behind.

His sword was drawn almost before he had turned all the way around to meet their attacker. With his free arm he shoved Amrothos out of the way, and the attacker's sword met his own with a clash of steel on steel.

The warrior twisted his blade around and tried to swat at his legs with the flat of his blade, but Faramir blocked the blow easily. He feigned a thrust at the warrior's side, but instead came down with the flat of his blade on the figure's right arm, naught more than a stinging slap.

This seemed to anger the strange warrior, for he feinted a blow at Faramir's hip and struck upward with his hilt, delivering a solid cloud to his cheek. Faramir grunted, wincing at the stinging ache that made his cheek numb, and after locking blades with the warrior, punched him in the stomach.

The figure let out a gasp of air and folded forward. Faramir came round again, this time using the warrior's own technique and twisting around, striking the back of his legs with the flat of his sword.

It worked. The figure stumbled and hit the ground hard, sword flying inches away. His eyes now adjusted, he could still see the figure only vaguely in the dim light. He could see that the warrior was small and lithe, dressed in a long brown—dress?

With a gasp, Faramir stumbled back. It couldn't be—but it was.

"A girl?" Amrothos said, voicing both his and his cousin's thoughts.

The girl's long blonde hair was tied back in a hasty knot, and her face was pale and determined. As Faramir hesitated, trying to determine the best course of action, she paused and then lunged for her sword, using it to defend herself as she kicked his legs out from under him and rolled to her feet.

"The battle isn't over until your enemy's sword is out of reach," she said, holding her sword point at his throat and staring grimly down at him. With a shock he recognized words that he himself had spoken many years before.

"Is…is that you, Éowyn?"

The girl froze, staring down at him with something akin to confusion.

"Éowyn is my name, though how you came to know it I'm sure I don't know. I've never seen you before in my life."

She glanced at Amrothos, who looking rather angry at seeing his cousin at sword point, and gave him a severe look.

"And don't you try anything, either. My uncle will be pleased to know I've finally caught the horse-thieves who have been robbing us blind."

There was an awkward pause.

"Horse thieves?" Amrothos asked, laughing aloud in relief. "Is that what you think we are?"

"We're not horse thieves, my lady," Faramir said, glancing at her sword worriedly and marveling at how well she had wielded it. "And you're mistaken on another point as well, for we have met before."

Though the years between their meeting had caused the memories to fade, the sight of her face and excitement of the fight they had just fought brought them back in a rushing river of thrill and remembrance. How could he have remembered her as a 'funny, little dramatic thing'? Had he forgotten so swiftly their brief yet wonderful friendship and the words whispered in Elvish on the wind at their farewell?

"I don't know what you're talking about," Éowyn snapped, "I'm quite certain I don't know who you…are…"

She stopped and stared; Faramir could see the wheels turning, and at last a light of recognition lit in her steely eyes.

"Wait…you aren't…Faramir?"


Her stomach ached from where the thief had punched her, and as she plunged toward the ground she vaguely felt her sword fly from her hand. She landed hard, bruising one hip for sure, the collision jarring her from head to toe. The thief stared down at her, but instead of advancing, stumbled back, as if confused.

"A girl," said the fair-haired one, his eyes wide with something akin to surprise.

Taking advantage of the thief's hesitation, Éowyn leapt for her sword and then kicked the strangers legs out from under him. As he collapsed to the dusty floor, she rolled to her feet in a well practiced combat move and stood, hands trembling and sword pointed at her opponent's throat. A sudden flashback made her blink, and words rose unbidden in her mouth, words that she had practiced applying in every fight she fought.

"The battle isn't over until your enemy's sword is out of reach."

They had been his words. The boy she had fought with so many years before. It had been the one lesson in swordsmanship that she'd never allowed herself to forget, because she knew it could be vital in perhaps the very-near future.

"Is…is that you," the thief said, his voice revealing that he was much younger than she'd originally reckoned. He seemed to be trying to remember something, and at last added, "Éowyn?"

Éowyn felt a moment of shock. How did he know her name? And he had looked shocked at the words…Faramir's words. But surely this was not her friend; this was an older, grimmer warrior.

In a guarded tone, she replied, "Éowyn is my name, though how you came to know it I'm sure I don't know. I've never seen you before in my life."

The fair-haired boy looked as if he was about to pounce at her. She turned so she could keep her eyes on both of them, and then gestured at him with the edge of her sword.

"And don't you try anything, either. My uncle will be pleased to know I've finally caught the horse-thieves who have been robbing us blind."

Even as she said it, she knew she had caught the wrong people. She noted the fine garments they wore and the noble appearance both of them wore like crowns, and knew that these were not the ones who had stolen her uncle's horses.

"Horse thieves?" asked the fair-haired one, laughing aloud. "Is that what you think we are?"

"We're not horse thieves, my lady," said the one on the ground. His dark hair had specks of dust in it now, and a horrid bruise was starting up on his cheek. "And you're mistaken on another point as well, for we have met before

"I don't know what you're talking about," Éowyn said, feeling rather bewildered, "I'm quite certain I don't know who you…are…"

She met his gaze for the first time, and saw with surprise that she did know the silvery eyes of the young man before her.

"Wait…you aren't…Faramir!"

The young man nodded in obvious relief, and Éowyn stumbled back a step. He was older, yes, but it was the same Faramir she had fought so many years before. The same save for a strange grimness in his face, as though he had come face to face with death and pain and come away from the encounter a different person altogether.

"What, Faramir?" the fair-haired boy said, glancing her over appraisingly. "You mean you know this girl?"

"It's been rather a long time," Faramir said, ignoring the boy and gaining his feet, bowing in way of a greeting. "I wasn't certain if you'd remember our…well, our last meeting. It was quite brief."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" she replied vaguely, sheathing her sword and slapping at her skirts to dust them off. "It's beginning to come back to me, though. And how was I supposed to recognize you? You've gone and grown up."

"So have you," Faramir replied softly, taking into account the tall, slim figure and fair, noble face. There was something about her eyes, too; harder, more somber, they seemed.

The fair-haired boy cleared his throat, and Faramir took a deep breath, breaking free of the moment.

"Lady Éowyn, this is my cousin, Amrothos, son of Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth. Amrothos, Lady Éowyn of Rohan, niece to Théoden King."

"A pleasure, my lady," Amrothos said, gallantly bowing and kissing the hand she extended toward him.

"And what brings you to Rohan, Amrothos, son of Imrahil?" Éowyn asked, glancing at Faramir though the question was directed at his cousin.

"Well really I just—,"

"Wanted to come along to see the land of Rohan," Faramir interrupted with a grin. "Father sent my uncle to watch after Boromir and me, who were to visit your uncle's court and request reinforcements and assistance against Sauron's forces."

A shadow passed over Éowyn's face at this.

"The Rohirrim is stretched as thin as paper over Rohan's plains, for we've lost many men this year to wild beasts and freak accidents."

"So your uncle said," Faramir replied solemnly. He was about to continue and say something about Boromir being impatient when Éowyn stiffened and held up a hand for silence. He stopped and listened.

A grating sound, like that of a rusty hinge on a door, creaked in the near silence of the stable. All three of them looked round anxiously, trying to determine the source of the noise. Éowyn ducked down into a stall; Faramir and Amrothos followed after a moment of hesitation.

"What's going on?" Amrothos hissed, giving Éowyn a strange look.

"Quiet," she whispered back ferociously. "I heard the same noise a few minutes ago, and I just know it's connected to the horse-stealings."

TBC...