The days then passed sedately for them all, slow and bitter-sweet; like the heavy amber syrup made of birch that Ivriniel espoused, and just as much a tonic for the body as the soul.

Éowyn found she most looked forward to the mornings. She and the Steward would stroll the paths and the broader grassy meadows, enjoying the warmth of sun on skin; silent, or at times sharing much of what came to their hearts. They accepted with as much grace as possible their confinement. The Master Healer's unconventional medication continued to arrive wherever they could be found—on the greensward for morning training walks or in the near courtyard after the (realistically) necessary naps. The lady obligingly tried the pebble and card games that Varan insisted would help the fingers of her sword hand and did her best not to grumble to find that he was right.

The days were sweet for the company was good. The Steward proved endlessly curious about everything, delighted at her own knowledge of politics and quite genuinely keen on her opinion. He gave her funny (but carefully edited) anecdotes from Ithilien's company. She bravely gave him odd and wry observations on the Houses' denizens and Gondor's customs. At his insistence. (Faramir claimed it would do the kingdom good to be shaken out of its stuffiness.)

The days were bitter, too, for when she tired they would sit silently while he haltingly scribed another of the endless letters to the families of his fallen men. The sombre little hillock piled up against the day a messenger went forth and no amount of remonstrance by Varan or his aunt or cousin would make him delay the awful duty. Éowyn sat, heart leaden, feeling that at least she could help by being there.

Quite why she felt the need to help she did not understand.

Hours passed and though the people of the City smiled little and looked often to the East, there was in the Houses a certain hopefulness, for there, at least, the signs of healing were clear to see. The paths, and even the far outer loop, were now busier at certain times of day and Éowyn found that she was a little stronger: one loop round, slowly, paced by an endlessly courteous, thoughtful fellow prisoner, became two and even three.

For this reason on the morning of the third day she shrugged on the deep blue mantle and ventured out into the suddenly chiller air. The bright high blue sky of the days before had turned to grey. Spring's heavy dew draped the paths and plants like a musty blanket- more a misty heaviness than outright fog, and Anor's rising warmth did little to pierce its mass.

Éowyn shivered, it was more humid than truly cool, but she forced herself to pick up her pace. The thought of the sheltered bench and shared breakfast was welcome and if was to her it would be to the many who ventured out that day. Hopeful healing also meant more crowded seats. She did not wish to find their usual spot by the great cedar tree occupied.

Sighing with relief, she spied the now familiar green hood pulled up against the damp.

"Faramir!"

The figure started and turned to greet her hail. The sling was right but something of the man's carriage was a little broad.

"Oh…" she murmured, disappointed, as the shadows dropped from the too broad face, the ruddy cheeks and warm brown eyes. "Lieutenant, I apologize. I mistook you for the Steward"

Anborn snorted and gestured with his sling. "No offense, my Lady. We are right twins just now with our slings and cloaks. And in this gloom the light is flat as a goblin's tit." The Ranger, suddenly remembering to whom he spoke, blushed furiously. "Pardon my rough speech, my Lady. Tis not fit for the company of Princesses."

"No matter, Lieutenant," she tilted her head, striving for amused by his assumption, "for I am not a princess. And having ridden with an eored I can give you that and more."

The young man threw back his head and laughed, clutching his free hand against his breast. "Oh bless me-I can't—Can you imagine the Princess's face?" He spluttered and rocked, chuckling until even Éowyn had to grin. 'The' clearly meant Princess Ivriniel..no one else she had met in past few days demanded such authority. Not even Master Varan. "I do not doubt it, Lady," Anborn went on, shaking his head. "Your countrymen upon the wards are not shy with their ver-nac-ular."

"Vernacular?" Éowyn frowned as the man hastened to make space for them both upon the cool stone. She set herself down and carefully pulled a fold the blessedly warm velvet up to cover her splinted arm. It was a most annoying barometer. In the cool humidity it had begun to throb again.

"I am an idiot, I forget our language is not yours. Vernacular. 'Tis a word I learned from our good Captain." He smiled and scratched his temple. "Means our common speech—everyday like—a little less high if you get my drift."

'Less high' It was a curious turn of phrase. Did the people of Gondor grade themselves according to their words, to how close to some ideal of Numenor they came? She did not know where Anborn was born but his accent surely owed more to Blackroot Vale than Minas Tirith or Pelargir?

She nodded and he narrowed his eyes wistfully. "Captain used to rib Damrod 'bout his something fierce. Said it was particularly blue. Aye, and it was, Gods but I miss the old cussing bugger. Could strip paint off a croft with his tongue the Lieutenant could." Anborn's hand raised to rub roughly at a misty cheek. "I've his commission now."

"I am sorry."

The Ranger sniffed noisily and sat straighter up. "Thank you, my Lady. Aye, well, we all here have too many tears and not enough buckets in Minas Tirith to catch 'em. No point in flooding the City streets." He smiled wanly and gestured to her cloak. "What brings you out on this bedamned morning? Not so lovely for walking this day."

Éowyn turned her head and scanned the farther reaches of the path. They indeed looked less than inviting. Farther in the distance the bulk of the curtain wall hung heavily over all. "I had hoped to break my fast with Lord Faramir. We did so yesterday. He mentioned that he would be here."

She flushed a little. It was not that she expected to see Faramir everywhere but somehow she was aware of him in a new way. It felt off to not start the day warmed by his lively speech. She missed it. More than she thought she would.

Anborn frowned, pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip, as if unsure what to say. "He had a…. bad night my lady. Princess Lothiriel mentioned it on her rounds. She hoped I might stop in mid-morn and see what I could do."

Éowyn's heart did an oddly awkward flip. "Oh! Is he ill again?" It had not occurred to her that the fever, once broken, could come back. Surely the King's healing touch would last….?

"Not fevered." Anborn quickly shook his head. "But troubled. He sometimes has dreams, my Lady. Damned unpleasant ones and Tulkas knows last night was foul enough to unsettle the steadiest soul."

It had been. A wind from the east had clattered on the glass, driving the clouds to shroud the moon. It had been black and ill-omened but something of Anborn's tone meant more than just a nightmare. She shivered—what if He- her foe -returned to her in dreams? The thought was truly terrifying yet, strangely, nothing of him had haunted her tired mind.

Only Theodred. And Theoden's peaceful face upon a field of ruin.

"Could..he.." she would not say the name, "be trying to sow harm?" From what Éomer had said the Enemy had spread such despair it had overmatched even Denethor's strong mind.

"Nay, my Lady, Captain Faramir has always had dreams, just like his poor lady mother, Namo rest her soul. We say that Lorien's works are clear only to the One I should not like to try to untangle what they mean, for good or ill. 'It was he first had the vision that sent the Captain General to his death." The young man sighed heavily and rubbed a hand nervously along his thigh. "From where I sit it's not much of a gift to have pure blood. Happier as a mongrel. We knew our luck was about to turn when he'd wake us all shouting in his sleep."

This 'gift' of Lorien sounded awful. In the Riddermark there were always rumours of wise women who 'saw' a crop blight before it happened or predicted the fouling of a well. Did they too, my chance, have the blood of Westernesse? It seemed far-fetched. "Perhaps I should go to him…" Éowyn rose up.

"Might be good," Anborn agreed, rising politely and giving a little bow. "If I know my Captain when he wakes he will be fretting that he let you down."

She would never be so churlish as to blame a man for being ill. "He is very considerate."

"That he is, " Anborn nodded. "Comes naturally to him to be thoughtful to a lady. And animals. And men. Knowing that it is hard for him to be hard makes us respect him all the more when he does it."

Éowyn began to take her leave but then the distinctive sound of clattering pottery came around the nearest bend. Of course.. it was the appointed time to break her fast—what Merry had decided to call her 'first little breakfast'. Kira and another older, shorter woman she did not recognize came down the path, each held the handle of much smaller breakfast tray. As they drew near and a wide, sunny smile graced the young servant's pretty face. The women curtseyed with only a little shifting of the plates.

"My Lady. Lieutenant Anborn."

Éowyn glanced sidelong; Anborn had risen hastily to his feet and bowed carefully, now an expert at keeping his shoulder still. She had the distinct impression that Kira's smile was meant for him. "You know each other?"

"Indeed we do." The Ranger's dark eyes twinkled. "The pleasure is all mine. Kira was ever so helpful when t'Captain and I toured the ward. We'd have never made it right round to all the men without her list." Éowyn was unsurprised. The overburdened healers had not the time to list all the men, their names and affiliations, but Faramir—he would want greet them by name if he could.

"It was nothing," Kira stammered, blushing as pink as the little starflowers beside the verge under the beam of Anborn's smile. "Marritt," she ordered, hiding her flustered state in doing, "let's lay it here.."

The older woman gave the bench a cursory swipe with a none-to-sparkling napkin before they set the tray down.

Anborn leaned across, inspecting the source of the enticing smells. "I see they are still chasing you with too much food."

"Sadly, yes…" Éowyn eyed the repast with a sinking heart. There were half the plates of dainties compared to the day before but still too much. Tea and kahva, and frikadeller once again, and a curious kind of flat, fruit-studded roll. But no sahrabas. The Steward was not expected to join her after all.

She swallowed around a sudden lump of disappointment. "I had hoped to have some help with the task."

Kira smiled, sympathetically. "Lord Faramir broke his fast in his room my Lady. Princess Lothiriel took in a tray for him and the Lady…" Abruptly her words trailed off. She began to lift the little metal lids off each dish and Éowyn had the distinct impression the young woman felt she had said too much. Kira unwrapped the napkin that covered a basket of sweetbreads and nodded to the now frowning young man. "Lieutenant there is nearly enough here should you feel the need to gallantly step up.."

Éowyn, not liking the feeling that she was missing something. twisted to look at each of them in turn. ""Lady.. ? Whom do you mean? "

Marrit sniffed and her mobile face turned sour as a bitter melon. "That Lady Amerith. His friend."

"Hush, " chided Kira, angrily. "That is Duchess to the likes of you. And you are no better than you should be, repeating gossip like a fishwife at the corner stall…"

The older woman folded her arms across her chest. "Now I meant no disrespect. Nice change around here to have a Steward who is not a dried up husk."

"Marrit!" Kira was scandalized. It was rare for someone to speak ill of Lord Denethor. He may not have been loved but he had been respected. "That was long ago and done. Leave be."

Whatever did she mean? Marrit scowled, standing back as Kira fussed with a complicated looking cup and strainer. Éowyn looked to Anborn for some helpful illumination but he merely muttered "Nothing to trouble you, my Lady." He gestured with a callused finger to the larger of the two metal pots. "A cup of that Kahva wouldn't go amiss."

As decoy maneuvers went it was as good as any. Kira poured the dark brown, bitter liquid into the larger of the two prettily painted cups and the Ranger balanced it expertly on his lap.

Leave be. It was a particularly Gondorian expression. An image of grandmother Morwen, lips set in a flat thin line, grey eyes glinting with disapproval, swam before her sight. She, all of eight, had just asked her beloved mam what Theodred was doing in the far loose box. At night.

Obviously she would get no more….

Damn these stubborn, tight-lipped Gondorians.
.

.~~~***~~~
.

When the Steward finally appeared, just after the fourth bell but thankfully before she lost even her firstborn to Anborn's pocketful of dice, he was not alone. Two tall women-Lothiriel and another whom she did not recognize—walked on his either side. The princess's grey smock was rumpled and stained as if she had worked throughout the night; the woman, by contrast, was perfectly turned out, or as perfectly as one could be in a city just held under siege: her linen dress was plainly but perfectly cut yet also streaked here and there with dirt. Who was she? Not a healer for those were not the Houses' formal robes. Youngish, but not much older than Faramir, could she be another cousin? Éowyn doubted it, for there were no other children in the Dol Amroth brood so far as she knew, and Denethor had been an only child.

Éowyn took a last gulp of the now bitter, stone cold tea and set the cup upon the bench with a clatter, watching the unusual procession. The unknown woman's arm had slipped protectively behind Faramir's back as she hovered like a hawk with an errant fledgeling. He walked slowly, jaw-set, as if wearied but determined to fly the nest.

She could sympathize with the feeling.

"Éowyn?" Faramir smiled wanly as they drew close. "I had hoped I might still find you here…" He looked pleased and a little relieved to see her. She, in turn, was shocked. He looked terrible. Pale and haggard, with a bleak strain about his eyes that had not been there in the days before. What sort of nightmare vision could do this? she wondered, shoving down a hard lump of anxiety in her chest. Whatever he had seen and feared he had come through the shadows of the deepest night into morning. For the moment she would focus on that fact.

She lifted her chin and tried a brighter smile. "Good morning, Faramir..and welcome."

At the path's fork he shrugged off his handlers and made a slow but perfectly respectable bow, wincing as he straightened up. "Good morning to you, White Lady, and to you, Lieutenant, " he added, nodding to Anborn. The lieutenant saluted smartly and gestured to the mist that swirled in waves about their feet. In the flower beds the buds appeared to float like lilies in a pond. "Captain, I am right pleased to see you out. It's scouting weather. Could snatch a haunch of deer right out from under an Uruk's nose in this. "

"That you could Anborn, especially if it were you. Or Erchirion."

Lothiriel, who had been rather focused on her charge, like a satellite orbiting a sun, looked up. "My brother? Sneak up and steal cargo under a Corsair's watch?" She grinned and shook her head. The middle Prince of Dol Amroth had happily taken on the moniker his grandfather had left off: Sea Fox. More for raiding Umbar's storehouses than fleecing its merchants on the trading routes. "Hello Éowyn, Lovely to see you. Anborn, please scoot over and give space for Faramir. I was not entirely convinced a walk was such an advisable plan."

"Thiri.. Please." Faramir's wry half smile took some sting out of the retort. "Is this some sort of payback for my youthful inexpert babysitting? Fussing like a clucking hen only adds to the headache."

She bristled. "I don't cluck. And you were the one who insisted on walking this far."

"I am not about to fall down where I stand."

"As if any of us would let you…." chided the other woman gently. Éowyn watched as she turned, extending a manicured hand, but not quite holding onto his elbow. The trio made quite a sight: the women fussing as much as he would let them-which was to say not much-and the Steward between, like a rattled hedgehog with his prickles up, determined to settle on his own but just as clearly overtaxed. From the slate-dark smudges below his eyes he appeared to have not slept at all.

The sympathetic denizens of the bench looked away and pretended a sudden interest in horticulture.

Once Faramir was seated, Lothiriel spoke up. "Éowyn, Lady of Rohan may I introduce the Duchess of Lossarnach and Lebennin. I don't believe you have met before."

The tall woman inclined her head respectfully. "It is a pleasure, Lady. We owe you and your countrymen a debt of gratitude."

Éowyn's reply was interrupted by the arrival of a breathless and anxious looking Bern. "Begging your pardon, my Lord and Ladies, " he wheezed, from his hurried run. "Princess Lothiriel. Princess Ivriniel needs you right away! A boat has arrived from up the river. There are more casualties from Cair Andros."

"Cair Andros?!" Faramir exclaimed. "It hasn't fallen?"

Anborn looked grim. "It did, Sir, even as we came to t'Forts. It is now held by the Enemy."

"Nienna this is a day of evil omen! Why did no one tell me?"

Anborn fiddled with his sling while Lothiriel bit her lip. It fell to the Duchess to explain the lack.

"There has not been time, truly Faramir. And Mithrandir bade us let you heal before all the news of ill be put to you."

"I must go." Lothiriel hastily gathered up her skirts and dropped a quick kiss on her cousin's brow. "Fara please, do not fret. There will be time enough when you are well."

"I should hope that that is soon."

"Este grant it so." The princess bid them all goodbye and hurried after Bern. In her wake Éowyn was just beginning to wonder how to correctly open a conversation with this woman she had just met, when an elegant hand was extended.

"Lady Éowyn, pray allow me leave to clarify. I am Amerith of Lossarnach. We are cousins I believe. Steelsheen was my great aunt."

Amerith? So this was the woman who was Faramir's friend.. Now she understood why the name had been familiar-her grandmother and Amerith's had been sisters. Amarna, the elder, had inherited Lossarnarch and Morwen, the younger, had made a match to a dashing, exiled Prince of a foreign land. Theoden had spoken of Amerith many times, always quite highly- as leader in her own right of one demesne and steward of another. A noblewoman and not someone to be trifled with.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance cousin." Éowyn offered cautiously in her coolest, polite and 'high' Sindarin.

There was a pregnant pause as an elegant auburn eyebrow raised. "As I am yours. And that was very prettily done. I feel certain you will be a hit should anyone find the wherewithal to hold a formal dinner."

Eowyn's mouth dropped open. The duchess had spoken in almost perfectly accented Rohirric, more like a goodwife at Meduseld than Minas Tirith. She was shocked- and no little flummoxed—unable to guess the intent behind the frankly and uncomfortably apprising green gaze. Prettily? Was the woman amused? Insulting her? Chastising her for being formal to a kinsman?

She had the unnerving feeling she was being given some sort of test and had no idea what the purpose was.

Faramir, perhaps sensing her discomfiture, turned his attention from his friend. "Éowyn, I am sorry. It was rude of me to have not mentioned the connection." He began to pull himself from the now crowded bench. "Amerith you do not have a seat. Take mine."

"Of course not darling," the duchess replied in Sindarin once again. "Don't be ridiculous. I am perfectly fine."

Darling? She was the 'friend' Marrit had alluded to but was this not overly familiar? Éowyn looked, dumbfounded, at Faramir. He did not appear at all surprised by the epithet; either the lady was the type to be familiar with everybody or they were very close friends indeed. Captive in the Houses, with little opportunity to experience how Gondorians spoke with one another, had she missed some custom? Much of what she had seen and heard had so far only reinforced her impression of a certain stiffness, although Béma knew Boromir, whom she had met several times, had been loud and exuberant enough to rival even Éothain. Perhaps not all Gondorians were as dour as the redoubtable Master Varan?

Faramir, reassured, settled back down with a stifled sigh and Amerith smiled fondly back. "I shall see you later in the day. When Anborn has used the advantage of your indisposition to relieve you of every castar in the treasury."

"Duchess I would never.." the Ranger began... but the Duchess held up her hand and wagged a beringed finger.

"Really? That is not what I had heard. Beware the quiet ones. They are usually busy counting cards."

Anborn blushed to the roots of his dark sorrel hair. Before Éowyn could ponder this unusual exchange the more, Amerith had turned back to her and held out a green velvet clad elbow.

"Lady Éowyn there is another seat a little farther on. Shall we leave them to it?"

Éowyn hesitated. There was just enough steel under the light pleasant tone to convey that she was to move-she did not like it—to be pressed was a little unnerving- but in this instance her curiosity outweighed the sting of the annoyance.

"Very well."

Accepting the proffered arm as graciously as she could, she rose and gathered her mantle about her. With no more than another elegant inclination of her head Amerith bid the men goodbye and set out on the path's western branch. As they walked she remarked brightly on several of the plants native to Lossarnach's higher vales and Éowyn took the risk to glance aside. The duchess was undoubtedly beautiful, more interesting than pretty, with dark auburn hair falling in well-behaved and flowing curls, an elegant neck and, regardless of the City's state, a discreet and flattering touch of paint. If next to Lothiriel's striking, petite features and fine raven hair Éowyn felt oddly heavy, beside this woman she felt decidedly rustic. Would her polished look appeal to a man such as Faramir? She would not have thought so, for she had the distinct impression he was most comfortable with natural things: casual camaraderie as opposed to studied manners; wild bird song as opposed to trained captive calls. He had remarked on it as they passed a small brown thrush in a filigree cage inside the colonnade. Kira had implied, quite strongly, that their 'friendship' was in the past. At the very least, from their easy familiarity Éowyn should have guessed them best of friends.

Béma, what did it matter? She shoved the palest green shoot of jealousy hastily back down. It was nothing to her what the man did with his time. Then or now. Her heart was given, quite pointlessly, to another.

A few strides more and another of the grey stone seats appeared, this one covered by new tendrils of a glossy vine she could not place. Éowyn sat and folded her hands in her lap, squaring her shoulders. There were questions she wished to ask, not least why the woman was taking an interest in her, but before she could organize her thoughts, Amerith had settled her skirts, smoothed a wayward crease and tapped her lightly on the arm. "Thank you for accepting my invitation," Amerith remarked. "I was most particularly keen to meet the Hero of the Pelennor to whom we owe so much. And the woman whose company can pull our young Steward from his bed. He swears it is your company that is theraputic, not the treats."

He does? Éowyn had an awful feeling her mouth was agape like a gasping salmon dragged from the spawning run. What would possess Faramir to have said so of her? Certainly they had spent several pleasant days together, but 'theraputic'? Surely the duchess was overstating his words for some intent she could not divine.

"Lady.. I.."

"Amerith, please, we are cousins."

Éowyn shook her head, vehemently. 'Amerith, I know not of what you speak. Faramir… I should say the Steward and I have been much together these past few days but that has been purely convenience. We are convalescing from a similar illness. It is the fresh air and exercise, the light, that has helped. Speaking with Meriadoc has served just as well."

Shrewd emerald eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps so…yet rarely does he say that which he does not mean. More rarely does he do anything on a whim. Denethor's tutelage has had a hand in that."

Éowyn frowned. Of course Lord Denethor had been known as a stern and commanding man, hardened by grief, expecting as much from his sons as he did himself. She had not stopped to think of the impact of such an upbringing on a man. Her grandmother and uncle and Theodred had always made it clear she could speak her mind, encouraged her, loved her without condition.

It was Grima who taught her to stay her tongue least she give him words to twist into tangled skeins of ichor dark deceit.

She took a deeper breath and spoke, daring the question that dragged the hardest –for this was an audience and who knew how they should have? "Tell me..why do you care?"

There was a pause, just long enough for Éowyn to feel an odd sort of weight, before Amerith sat back, hand to her mouth, as if thinking better of what she planned to say. Far from offended at her bluntness, the woman seemed impressed. "Simply? I have cared since a green boy came to me for advice a more sensitive parent should have given him. I have watched as the winds of life have buffeted him too hard and, though he is strong and withstood them all, I would build a screen to lessen them however, whenever I can. That includes understanding sudden currents in the wind."

Her eyes swept up and down the fall of Finduilas' heavy cloak, once, twice before she chose to speak again. "That colour is quite breathtaking on you my dear. Darkest midnight. It brings out the blue tones in your eyes and the brightness of your skin. Poor Finduilas only looked more ghostly white. But Denethor, like his younger son, loved his lore. Blue for the house of Dol Amroth. Silver stars for the namesake of Gil-galad's valiant sister."

Éowyn blinked. "You saw her in it?"

"Yes," Amerith went on, sadly, "I was a young girl newly arrived at court and in high excitement at my first formal ball. She was so very, very beautiful. Ethereal, like a moonflower, but almost as frail even then. It was well known that Faramir's birth weakened her but few expected she had so little time to live." That intense green gaze bored steadily for a moment. "Do not mistake the significance of this gift, daughter of Éomund. It is one of our young Steward's most cherished possessions. Bequeathed to him by his father and a memory of that brave and noble lady."

"But I would never expect to keep an heirloom such as this!" Éowyn was aghast. The woman could not think Faramir meant her to keep it in perpetuity? He was only being considerate and besides, soon enough Elfhelm and the eored would return and she could beg a spare one from the wains. "Once I am released and can make arrangements I plan to give it back."

"You do?" Amerith frowned and looked quickly back toward the other bench. Anborn had risen, was about to take his leave, clapping his one steady hand tightly on his Captain's unbandaged shoulder. For the barest moment her expression softened, like old winter snow in the springtime sun, but then was it gone again.

When she turned back, Éowyn had the strangest feeling that she was being read.

"I should think carefully before the event Lady Éowyn. Sometimes a kind gesture can heal a wound even a tincture cannot reach."

.
~~~000~~~
.

A stiffening breeze in the afternoon chased the morning's mist away but drove also a little rain, birds and guards alike hunched shoulders against the wet. It set the pennants to flapping limply like trews on a washing line and chased even the hardiest of the garden's occupants indoors. Éowyn found Meriadoc in the Houses's little library settled by a stout fire with the remains of second lunch and the start of a satisfying pipe.

He drew heavily on the thin steam and coaxed the sputtering leaves to life. "Will you have some?" he asked, gesturing to the one last untouched cake. Her stomach twisted sourly. One lunch had been enough.

"No thank you Merry, please go ahead."

He plucked the square from its plate with alacrity. "I shall never turn down an opportunity again, my Lady, having had Orc swill for many days." Was it her imagination or was Merry growing before her eyes? He had eaten enough, (including a few of her and Faramir's repasts) since the battle to fuel even Erkenbrand, that tree of a man, barrel-chested and nigh as tall as Éomer.

She sat down on a worn but soft hide ottoman and they kept each other company for a while. Here and there a sudden gust would drive the rain against the glass, clattering like pebbles, before subsiding once again. They talked of little of consequence: she, homesick, remembering the soft muffled hiss of rain on Meduseld's golden thatch, he asking all she could remember of Theoden before Grima's spells took hold. They talked long and easily until a surprised Hallas found them there, as intrigued as Theoden had been by Merry's exotic habit. The hobbit, allowing that Gandalf had once chastised him for ruminating on the habit when there was a Tower to be expunged, remarked that he hoped that there in Houses he would be allowed a little licence. "To be 'light-hearted at it where.'" Éowyn smiled. After the morning's travails Hallas seem quite happy to allow it, gave him what lore he had on the wild harvesting of galenas, another weed that he had thought had little use. The Warden, unable to resist a lecture, perched an arm upon the mantle and there followed a too-detailed and animated discourse on herblore.

Soon enough, warm and admittedly a little bored, she found her eyes began to droop. Perhaps she should go lie down? Rest a little, as indeed she had been instructed to.

Bidding the Hobbit and Man both good day, Éowyn rose and pulled the heavy door shut behind her, walking back down the busy corridors, now well versed enough to find her own way to the eastern wing, but distracted—puzzling still the morning's conversation that had left her tired, more unsettled than she cared to admit. Surely Faramir had just been being kind? She had had a few men compliment her on her beauty in her life—it was what men did- none of them meant any deeper sentiment by it. But however much she told herself to ignore Amerith's insistence he spoke only honestly – the part of her heart that wished, even craved, to trust another fluttered uncomfortably.

What would it be like to be certain of another man's aims? Their judgement. Their honesty? Éomer and Elfhelm of course she had, but that was not the same. They were family, even Elfhelm of a sort, self-appointed elder cousin in place of Theodred. The hollow ache in her heart where he should be had once been matched only by the one fruitlessly given to Aragorn. What she had taken for encouragement had been merely pity for her plight. To be spurnned she could abide. To be pitied she could not.

She clenched her fists, brushing a little too roughly past a serving a woman, and uttering a quick apology. Pity. Time and again she had seen it in the women's eyes when she turned down every offer of a dance to hold her Uncle's cup, in her brother's eyes when she was left, tearful, at Minas Tirith's gate. She was done with that imposter of an emotion and now supposedly another Ranger was offering her truth.

Did she believe it because she believed in him? Or merely because she yearned with all her heart to trust?

If only Námo could hear and judge.

She had almost reached her own door when she caught the first plaintive notes of a feadan. Soft, and then a little faster, as if the player were gaining in confidence, the tune tumbled like an rising brook in spring, repeating the main, ineffably sad refrain before sweeping on, gaining in hope, reaching for some beautiful fall just out of reach. It made her think of Sherbourne and the spring fete that would not be, of catching sun-warmed drops from melting icicles on her tongue.

The tune halted and then ran through once again. Whomever it was was practicing, searching for a certain flow or flight of notes and she could not help herself—she followed the tune to the farthest door on the right hand of the corridor.

It was ajar. And looked all too strikingly familiar.

"Faramir?"

She pushed the oaken door farther in. He sat upon the rumbled, unmade bed, back to the headboard, one leg up and the other braced carefully upon the floor. His sling hung empty and both hands were gripped about small redwood feadan, his elbow tucked a little awkwardly against his wounded side. He had obviously but recently come in; the dark blue tunic and green Ranger cloak lay discarded on a seat, steaming damply in the warmth of a small coal brazier. His light linen shirt was open, the laces of the cuffs were untied and also down the front; the bandages about his chest and shoulder looked fresh- perhaps they had just been changed. The room smelled herbal, sweet and fresh, of athelas, and sure enough on the brasier a little pot spat and bubbled, imbuing the air with its wholesome scent.

He was engrossed in the tune and quite oblivious of his guest. "That is lovely.." she exclaimed, suddenly fearing that she was being rude, spying on a private moment.

"Éowyn!" The frown of concentration on his handsome face lit into a small half-smile. "I hope I did not disturb you. I am trying to distract myself. None too successfully." He added with a snort.

"Nay..it is I who should apologize for intruding. I merely wondered at the song. It is unfamiliar but reminded me of something."

His sudden flush stood out against the whiteness of the bandages. "It is mine. Just a fragment I am working on…"

It was? That was something to be admired. In the Mark a Rider who fought but then serenaded his fellows around the campfire was valued as much as any lord.

She started to close the door. "I will leave you to it.."

"No!" he protested. "Please..stay.. I should be happy of the company." Determinedly, he set the reed pipe upon a little table and ran a hand through his dark locks. "Would you sit? Faramir, careful of his arm, leaned across the narrow bed and pushed stray papers and a wool blanket from off a little stool.

She hesitated. They had had little time to speak out in the garden and he seemed quite unconcerned to be seen half-dressed in front of anyone, much less a woman. Yet there was an obvious shadow of fatigue in his features. "I should go.."

"Please. I need help, "

"Pray, with what?"

A tiny corner of the wicked grin she had seen the day before crept back. He gestured to a second steaming pot. "The latest form of hot water torture. Guaranteed to calm a rampaging Mumak."

"Your's aunt's?" She grimaced, lifting its chased metal lid. It smelled like a linen press.

"Valar no, " he frowned, pulling his knees up. "Varan's. Nothing serious you understand. Lavender and camomile I think." He laid his head slowly back against the headboard, looking toward the ceiling and closely his eyes wearily. Although he smiled, making a valiant attempt at courtesy, she could tell he was in pain.

She had a sudden longing to smooth the crease between his brows. "You are unwell.."

The light grey eyes flew open. "No please. I should explain."

"You needn't explain anything on my account."

"No but I wish to.." He coughed, voice a little hoarse from playing and quickly she poured a cup, passed him the tea and poured another for herself. It felt as if to be polite was encouraging.

He blew on the steaming brew and took a sip. "I have for these last nights. . . . since . . it … ," (he needn't say the word, they both knew the day that changed everything) "slept drugged. At first, it was all too much, Varan judged it beneficial, needful for healing, but as the days have worn on I cannot stay so. Not and be ready to fight at need for it dulls the senses. He has begun to reduce the dose. One's body craves it initially and so you do not sleep well without it. I am afraid, lying sleepless for hours under Ithil's light it opened up….other doors I had thought closed."

"Doors?" Anborn had mentioned something of a gift?

He sighed. "There were many things that the Faithful brought from the fall of Numenor Éowyn . Each of the seven faithful houses were given a gift, along with the white star the conveyed Aman's blessing on their line. It was, is, an ability, passed down, father or mother to son or daughter, not always truly in these latter days, but like my mother and uncle and grandfather I sometimes see."

His voice had dropped low, as if afraid to give strength to the fell things in his mind's eye or let them swirl, unchecked in the dark shadows that plagued a half-empty soul.

She knew, for she had felt them too. Each time the Dwimmerlaik's mocking sneer disturbed her waking mind.

"A Vision? From Lórien?" He nodded. Did he then wish to speak of it or keep it locked away?

She was unsure but some sense that, like a wound, it should be purged made her ask. "What did you see?"

With her heart in her mouth she watched his eye turn inward, and with it, a grim set deepen on his face. "Smoke..black as tar and thick with dust as sharp as shards of glass. Choked with a rain of hot, glowing cinders, acid and foul as any breath on Middle-Earth. Frodo is lying there, his head bleeding, cradled by a black tattered cloth but covered by his own grey cloak, eyes closed. All around him is a wide grey plain, pocked with great holes and jagged, fractured blocks of black and ochre rock. It is as if some giant had thrown whole mountainsides for play." He shuddered but went on. "The air shakes as if concussed, booming and hissing like a monstrous firework and in the distance a tongue of orange glowing fire snakes down a deeper, blacker slope."

Bleak, troubled eyes raised and caught her own. "I do not know if he is dead, but I know this: It is true. The vision will not leave my sight. My head throbs with the pain of the sound and noise, I feel like I too must dodge those volleys." He groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his streaming eyes. "Forgive me, but all I can think is that I should have followed them, given them greater help but I could not…what little that I did was heresy.. It is maddening. Is this ill and our last hope is gone or well and he draws near as we should have hoped?"

Éowyn hardly dared to breathe. From what little Éomer had said there was precious little hope at all. She reached out and his brushed the back of his hand with her thumb, grounding him with nothing so simple as her touch.

"Yet we must be ready. What do you think will come?"

Faramir shook himself, blinking the hateful images away. "I have talked a little to Lord Hurin about the defense of the City. There are passages should the need arise, hidden deep in the Mountain's base. I and a few others know." He sighed and squared his sagging shoulders. "Do not mistake me lady. I do not Fear…not for myself, not bodily. I fear for our people.. For those whose life and kin have been ripped away, and could yet be swept away again. For what has been wrought in the Kingdom and may yet be lost."

"I do not fear." Yet even as Éowyn said the words she realized she was putting on a mask. She did fear. Very much. Uncertainty. Malice. Never knowing whether she would turn a corner and he would be there. Slavering with greed.

Faramir looked sadly at her defiant face, and the shadows thrown by guttering torches the crowded close. "I do. The bravest warrior struggles when the battle turns on some unseen thread. These visions are a dream I cannot catch, hold tight in a net to see what I have caught. I feel guilt, that somehow I have failed when the world spins on, away from our control. It is ever thus. I fear that it will always snatch what we love away.'

"We have both learned that lesson to our cost." The bitter words were out before Éowyn could stop herself. "I am sorry," she apologized, looking away, unable to quite meet the unhappiness in his eyes. Outside the window, to westward down the valley the mists were lifting. "You are grieving and sorrowed too. I should have not spoken so."

"No, you are entitled." His hand fell to clasp something at his throat.

She could not see at first what it was but then he let it go, wincing and reaching to settle his left arm back in the sling. A large moonstone set in a heavy silver ring hung on a chain about his neck. Her heart clenched. She recognized it..twin to the one Boromir wore about his neck. It was all he had of those he lost; the Steward's rod was broken, as was his ring. She knew that memories of his brother and father were crowding close. What could she say? An odd cool silence hovered about them all, a mist like the one that morn, the dictate that no one should speak too much about his father. She was afraid to disturb its weight, for fear ice would form in his veins.

Faramir scrubbed tiredly at his eyes. "Forgive me, I am melancholy. I feel that in losing Father I have lost them all again, Boromir and mother both. It is as if I walk with an arm gone that no one sees. Ragged and bleeding, like a casualty still on the battlefield."

He shook himself and looked up aghast. "Valar.. Éowyn that was uncalled for. A brutal image and I should have kept it to myself..."

She demurred. "I am a Shieldmaiden. It does not frighten me. And I know that ache. I too have lost nearly all of them. My mother, my father, a cousin dear as brother. At least my Uncle-King can now hold his head high in the Halls. I will bide until I, too, may ride and honour can be done."

"Can be done…?" He echoed her words, a stark comprehension dawning on his face. Béma, she had said more than she should and he was far too swift to not realize what it meant. "You cannot now still hope to walk the Road?!"

She faced him steadily as she could, the thundering din of the Pelennor sounding in her ears. "Honour in a brave and glorious death is the best I can hope for now."

Faramir flinched as if he had been struck. "But surely there is honour in more than sacrifice!" he exclaimed. His sword hand, callused but still warm from the steaming cup, reached out and folded tenderly about her own chilled and trembling fingers. "Éowyn. I do not love the sword or bow yet I have fought with my body and all my being all my life to defend this land. Had I a choice I would have found deeds of greatness with some other tool."

"Then I envy you my lord, for I would have taken your fate and gladly."

He laughed bitterly. "To be a second son. A pawn to be moved where best judged by another?"

"Is that not what I have been?"

She saw the arrow hit its mark. "So have we both, " he admitted sadly, bending his head and shaking it back and forth, before looking up again.

His light grey eyes pierced like a candle in the dim.

"What still sorrows you Éowyn?"

She swallowed. How could she explain? "I waited, patiently, on weary feet, doing my duty, day after day, as the men set out to find honour where they could. And when I would, by my own arm and action, look to help, to carve out my own shred of honour, I am denied and told wait some more." By the very man who threw it back in my face and told me to accept gratefully and with more patience.

Faramir's dark brows drew together. "The waiting you and I must endure together. But is there no honour to be had another way? Is the only renown of worth to be gained with a sword? Your people do not sing songs only of slaying."

"They tell no tales of goodwives sitting patiently at their looms!" she cried, incredulous.

His mouth twisted, bleakly. "That is true. And neither do we in Gondor sing songs of failed retreats." He rubbed a thumb, worriedly across his forehead. "My aunt Leylin oft said that no songs are sung of women because they are the ones too busy doing to compose. Still I say to you there must be honour in other deeds else the line of Stewards be considered ill-favoured indeed. My forefathers have done another's job for thousands of years. Holding a lower, lesser seat for the one who was to come. Only my brother came to feel it was a dishonour."

"To do brave deeds is what calls Tilion from the halls, " Eowyn insisted. Tilion, Béma's huntsman, who rode at his right hand. It was the greatest honour a warrior could receive: to be set upon the road to Mandos' halls by the Shining One.

Faramir shook his dark head, gripped tighter at her hand. It hurt but she would not pull away. "The bravest soul I know has taken, willingly and unflinchingly, a burden of unimaginable weight. He holds a sword only for defense."

Theodred, speaking of their father's crippled brother, had once said something similar. Eorthold, twisted, misshapen, had quietly and without complaint endured a painful sickness for sixty years. She shifted uncomfortably, the chair was hard and beside her a burning coal collapsed, hissing in its iron cage. The scent of old wool began to overtake the healing herbs.

"What of Helm Hammerhand?" he asked.

"What of him?" she challenged. "There are many odes to his name. He was one of our bravest, most valiant leaders."

"That he was," agreed Faramir. "But Helm did not win a noble victory. He was defeated at the Crossings, withdrew to the Hornburg to stand a siege, succored his people through a long and brutal winter."

Éowyn bristled. That he, a wealh, a Gondorian, should give her, a daughter of Eorl, a lesson in her own history. The cheek! "I know that well!"

"I am certain of it," he went on, mildly. "His son Haleth was slain before the Golden Hall and his other son Hama perished in a blizzard. Grief-stricken, only after bitter starving months did he abandon the fort, battering the earth with his bare hands to forage and die, frozen in the unforgiving snows. Do you really pity him? He had no glorious death in battle yet your most famous fortress is honoured with his name."

Éowyn, blinked, surprised that he knew so much of her own people's lore. What was his point? Helm died and feasted gloriously in the Halls. "Of course I do not pity him! He died and kept his honour."

"But not in battle, not at the point of a Dunlending's wicked blade," he insisted. "Helm is remembered for his sacrifice to keep the people fed." After a longer pause he let go one hand and rolled his stiffened shoulder. "Lady, it is your choice, but I should grieve if you give up the gift of life you have if it is only honour that you seek."

He tilted his head, frowning thoughtfully. "Or is there something more?"

Béma take the man! Could he see into her very soul? She yanked her hand away and stood, glaring at him, chest heaving with emotion and knocking the little stool against the rug.

Faramir, face pained, seeing the fury on her brow, rose from the bed and spread his hands. "Forgive me. I have presumed too much. Tulkas take my running tongue. I meant to help…."

"No….. I.." But her words trailed off abruptly. Could she deny it? Was he wrong? It was what she wished to say but she knew that he was not. That would be a lie. What he said was truth and for the second time that day Éowyn found she had no answer.

Embarrassment warred with a sense of umbrage. "I should go."

Faramir crossed the space and reached courteously for the door handle. The crease of worry between his eyes had deepened; it made his thin tired face look old. Too old. We have all seen and fought too much.

"I am sorry. May I see you again tomorrow?" he asked plaintively.

Éowyn's heart clenched. How had the afternoon gone so far off tack? This man, who had lost everything, was trying to comfort her when she had thought to comfort him.

Deliberately she let her anger hiss out in a long steadying breath, rearranged her frown into the barest smile. What would it hurt to try to mend the breach? "Of course. Will you bring your feadan?"

"If you wish it."

"I do. Good night."

"Good night." He gave a half-bow, hand to breast and watched as she walked the few steps to her own door.

She let herself through, kicked off her slippers and dropped to the soft mattress with a groan. Kira had kindly left on folded blanket across the foot. She drew it over herself, wrapped up to keep out the sound of rain and the hounding of her unsettled thoughts.

It didn't work. Her mind came back, again and again, to the Deeping Wall, a causeway and a few thousand souls who had shivered in a long winter's dark.

Sometimes the bravest thing one could do was to live fight another day. Faramir had not said in those words but that was the gist of what he meant. She groaned and shifted the feather pillow, willing it to lie softer under her now aching head.

Is there something more? His question had been maddeningly perspicacious. Honour. Renown. Choice. All three were what she wanted. But only two seemed to be in reach.

The afternoon's fading light cast slanted shadows on the floor. She tossed and turned. Frustration chased puzzlement, and then, just as her drooping eyelids grew more burdensome than she could hold, another question dawned.

Why did he care? Why should this man argue so very hard to keep her from harm's way?
.

A huge huge thank you to the lovely readers have followed and/or favourited in the past few months: beety, Dinky Dau, Dragonbinder, crlor, Istariwho, Marindes, millstone and SilverScribbler. Your support is so very appreciated, and also to all of you have reviewed. I am striving to reply to everyone.. Those little alerts keep be going. We are so close-I am determined to finish this...but feel a little like a runner flagging at the finish line.

Once again grateful thanks to my chorus this month at the Garden of Ithilien: Annafan, Thanwen and Wheelrider. Your insight and encouragement keep this sprawl true to itself and make it so much better