Before we dive in to this month's chapter (sorry..June simply vanished..our son was sick again but thankfully we have him home from the hospital and well), I would like to thank those who favourited and followed since Chapter 34: 1Special-K, Rohirrim Girl 2187, alderain, theofoz, Kullken, Thamril, junegloom and LadyLindariel. Just so thrilled you are all enjoying. And to those who reviewed pms are on their way shortly! I am just so blessed….
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"As my lady commands…."
Years hence, the Lady of Ithilien would recollect, sitting under Emyn Arnen's prized Mallorn tree, eager little ones rapt at her feet ("Tell us about the Eagles..." asked Finduilas; "and the singing and the dancing..." added Theomund), that the first hours after her husband's blindingly grateful smile were something of a blur.
All of Minas Tirith seemed in motion.
Alive with energy and delirious with joy, soldiers and citizens alike rejoiced at the tidings the Eagles brought. Wards burst open. Garden paths thronged with patients singing and praising the Host's unlooked for victory.
It took nigh a candlemark for Éowyn and Faramir to make their way to the stone front gate. Every soldier wished to clap the Steward on the back and every assistant had wildly indecorous handshakes for the Hero of Pelennor. The bravest of them (perhaps drunk on relief) swung Éowyn right around in his arms to set her, startled and laughing so hard she had begun to hiccup, into the arms of an amused and confusingly animated Master Healer.
Only mildly disheveled, Éowyn forebore this unexpected familiarity with perfect grace. Varan, prizing his manhood despite his rumoured vow of chastity (incorrect in point of fact), took no liberties and perspicaciously set her gently back on her feet. In the aftermath she blinked and he bowed so low his ponytail nearly brushed the flagstones.
It proved impossible to ignore Faramir's provoking grin.
In the largest ward they found Lothíriel dabbing at her bright eyes with the corner of her apron. The young princess had been soundly kissed, her kerchief was askew and several strands of onyx hair tumbled to her shoulder. Beside her, Aunt Ivriniel (a little more composed after Bern's exuberant attention) knelt at the cot of a young City guard and continued her ministrations. She was poised as the Lady of the Wood despite the bedlam of singing, whooping men.
"Oh Fara..I cannot believe that it is true!" Lothíriel exclaimed. She had spotted his tall form weaving through the noisy crowd of walking wounded and set her tray of medicaments aside.
"It is and blessed be the One…" he replied, sweeping her and a protesting Ivriniel up at once into a long and bone-crushing, one-handed hug. "The King is returned. The Black Gate thrown down. And beyond all hope we have the victory!"
Éowyn watched, hanging back a little for these women were his family, but amused to note that he had used both arms just a ward away, beyond Ivriniel's eagle eye. He set them both lightly down and reached for her free hand, drawing her near, and though she felt it not her place to interrupt so momentous a celebration any doubt of her reception vanished when Lothíriel planted on each of her cheeks the uniquely Gondorian double kiss of friendship.
"Éowyn, is it not the most wonderful news?!"
Oh it was. Out of fear and dread, they had snatched a most glorious victory, Éowyn felt suddenly grateful this spontaneous, genuine young noblewoman who had brought her friendship in a darkened time. She hugged her back shyly before she spoke. "Lothiriel, it is indeed. A day that shall be sung of by the bards with pride. Alongside the most noble of our feats."
"All who sing will honour the memory of those who struggled long." Faramir remarked. "But I hope to have the good fortune to hear your countrymen rejoice the more. They are as famous for their voices as their courage on the battlefield."
Éowyn inclined her head but did not speak. The comment was gracious: already they had caught the sound of a small chorus from the Rohirrim's ward but it had been restrained—the Riders were ill after all—and the sudden need to be in Meduseld, feasting and singing long into the night, hit home like a perfect arrowshot. She must find Elfhelm and his Riders who had assailed Anorien, for there there would be songs of slaying and praise to Béma ringing out over the muddy plain where they encamped.
Faramir eyed her thoughtfully before stepping back, turning his gaze to the spontaneous party that had erupted in the ward. "Cousin, where will you be this eve?" he asked. "When are you free? We must raise a glass and speak more when I have news. I should hope there will be word from the Morannon before tomorrow. We are all anxious to know about Uncle, Elphir and Amrothos. And the King. And Éomer-King and the Éored. And Pippin and the Hobbits, " he added, mouth quirking. "T'will be a heavy message for the poor pigeon."
"The townhouse, after supper has been served," answered Ivriniel firmly when Lothíriel's throat had proved suddenly too thick to speak.
How curious? Was it Éowyn's imagination or did the young woman's porcelain complexion brighten when the Morannon was named?
She peered more closely. A distinct rosy glow indeed lingered on Lothiriel's cheeks—the Princess pined for someone, but who? One of Dol Amroth's fabled Swan Knights? Éowyn had seen them in their matching bright livery across the Pelennor: majestic and elaborately resplendent- quite the antithesis of the Éohere.
She glanced sidelong and caught a swiftly stilled frown on Ivriniel's narrow face. How curious. No one had mentioned that Lothiriel was affianced; if the younger princess was enamoured of a knight it was certainly news to her aunt.
The tiny woman shrugged and turned to wag a thin finger pointedly at her nephew's chest. "Mind you aren't too late. There will be days ahead for celebration. No need to overtax yourself.…"
He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I wouldn't dream of it, Aunt Rini."
"I would!" Éowyn protested. Truly, Ivriniel was well-meaning, but did she really expect them to bed down early on the most momentous night of their lives?! And did Faramir actually plan to obey? She silently ground her teeth, fuming to be treated like a child. Beside her the forgotten guardsman sat with mouth agape, astonished at the unlikely spectacle of a warrior disagreeing outright with the tiny Princess of Dol Amroth.
Lothíriel, not in the least perturbed, looked between the protagonists and broke into a fit of merry giggles. "Then you, my dear cousin, must sacrifice yourself and play the gracious host."
"And it is a price I am prepared to pay for the betterment of our two kingdoms." Faramir bowed almost soberly over his arm, mouth quirking and eyes aglint.
Éowyn let out a smallest sigh of relief. Thank Béma. He had no intention of following through but then she looked on the elder woman's face uncertainly. From Ivriniel's upright, rather formidable air of authority, Éowyn had assumed that she was serious- expected to be obeyed-and for a moment she worried that she had offended. Looking closer, there was just a very slight indulgent gleam in the pale grey eyes that so matched her nephew's.
Was it possible Ivriniel assumed her order would be belayed?
A pregnant pause stretched uncomfortably before Ivriniel snorted and rolled her eyes.
"So very selfless of you, young man. A bare two dozen females in the City to several thousand men and you volunteer to play diplomat." The grey headrail shook resignedly. "Away with you both. Lothiriel and I have a dozen more wounds to check and clean before we can enjoy the festivities."
"And the sooner you are done, the sooner the patients can celebrate," Faramir winked to the startled guard and offered his elbow to Éowyn. "Come my lady. Let us escape before she has time to change her mind and puts a halt to our impromptu mission."
After a last round of farewells they were off on their erratic procession once again.
In the sun of the forecourt they found Meriadoc with wounded Riders of Eothain's eored.
"Do you think….?" the halfling asked Faramir anxiously, having accepted Éowyn's tightest hug.
"I do." Faramir nodded slowly, smiling gravely and setting a solid hand on Merry's shoulder. "We shall find all of them are well, Merry. I do not doubt that we owe the tidings of this day to Frodo and to Sam, and that beyond all hope they have been brought back out of that shadowed land."
At the hall of Merethrond they did not find Lord Hurin- only a rumour of his anticipated presence. The commander, anxious about the repercussion of another breach, had been out on the mountain's flank personally inspecting now superfluous escape routes. Faramir's message to meet upon the morrow was left in the hands of a black-clad, dazed lieutenant who could barely hear over the sound of excited, singing folk. The Court of the Fountain was so stuffed with noisy celebrants that Éowyn felt certain had the Eagles come again, their cries would have gone unheeded above the din.
Inside the Steward's Palace the first cup of wine was pressed into Éowyn's sword hand by a thin and pretty matron with long steel-streaked hair. From her ruddy complexion it was evident she'd had already more than a cup.
"Oh leave off lad!" Nera batted ineffectually at Faramir's arm as he kissed her cheek and engulfed her in an exuberant hug. This was obviously his f nursemaid from when he was a boy-the affection between them was evident- and in due course Éowyn nodded to be introduced to her and others of the household. She sipped at a dark ruby wine, sweet and far stronger than what she was accustomed to and thus she tried to pace herself. The night was young and certain as snow on Starkhorn to be a long one: she had no wish to discover the sort of headache Éothain endured after vying with her brother for the deepest horn.
A dizzying but joyous candlemark amongst the Steward's staff passed far too fast. There were many, many thanks for her and her countrymen's valiant service from far too many names to recall. Proud of her correct half bow to Cahil (a marvel of balance and precision executed even as he pressed sweetmeats into her grasp and ordered her chased silver cup refilled), she was swept along on a tide of joyous energy; oddly not feeling the need to sit at all. Éowyn drifted happily through the group, let herself float on the high good humour, laughing (sometimes correctly) at the swift jokes and unbothered by so many strange faces after days of isolation.
It was reassuring to have the sight of Faramir's dark head across the room or just out of reach; but now and again, when she began to hesitate or feel flustered by the attention, he would pull her by the arm into a different little group, turn the focus to another soul and squeeze her hand. Then his eyes would swim back to her, shining and wistful, as if he, too, found the clamour all too much. Éowyn bit her lip. She was touched by his attention. Did he also remember fondly the perfect quiet of inexpertly winding bandages? Did he long to be back upon a stone bench in a secluded corner of the garden, alone and easy in each other's company?
Startled by her own thoughts, Éowyn hid her jumbled emotions for a moment in the cup.
Throughout the eve she had been unable to keep her eyes from him; could not stop being aware of Faramir's presence even through the press of people. How very odd. What was it that bound them? Held her attention as lightly if joined by a silken thread?
Confused, she fingered a frieze of ships about the goblet's rim. How could this be? Aragorn was her lodestone. It was he, the King, whom she wanted to follow to the Black Gate., not this maddeningly present Captain who, a bare seven days since they had known each other, distracted her like a dizzy girl.
Impossible. Incredible. And yet emotions were said to ripen quickly when the fear of death lay over all….
Eowyn took another gulp of the heady wine. It was fortified, hit her head quite swiftly and certain to be lethal if she did not sip. Hesitantly she raised her chin. Faramir's gaze was still upon her. A slow smile spread across his lips before he inclined his dark head, saluting with his cup.
Yavanna, there it was again. The beautiful smile from when the Eagles had arrived—the one that lit all his high proud face from eyes to chin. Unfettered. Easy. And all too rare.
Her heart gave a sudden flip and a warmth that had nothing to do with dark red liquid stole across her chest.
Béma, but he was a handsome man. And brave. And thoughtful and wryly funny. But a scholar, nothing like the loud, boastful Riders she had known.
At a burst of laughter he turned back to the group. Eowyn stood and watched the Steward's staff (at their ease and many well-gone in their cups). They sang and talked and jested, following their lord's every word but also sharing their solemn tears. One man, a young page in the livery of the Tower, stood with streaks of grief running down his cheeks, asking quietly if were seemly to celebrate when there were those who would not come home.
"Aye," came the rough, choked response, "With all the heart that we still have."
And then Éowyn knew that Faramir reminded her most of Théodred. One who also understood that a gentle heart did not diminish a brave man's worth. One with whom she need never fear.
She let his memory wash over, sweet and bitter all at once, draining the cup's dregs in honour, turning it over to let the last drop fall to the floor in silent offering.
"Are you well?"
Faramir had pushed his way back to her and laid a worried hand on her forearm. She smiled and nodded through a sheen of tears. "I am. Whither now are we bound?"
"The barracks."
"Is it far?" she asked, beginning to wonder about the advisedness of visiting the promised townhouse. Her feet were a little sore. This was much farther than she had walked in days and the soft moccasins she had worn to slip out of her bed were not made for traipsing across cobblestones.
Faramir shot her a concerned frown. "Not far. Should we rest a bit?"
They did.
For a time they perched like errant children on the top of the Seventh Circle's steps, shoulder to shoulder, quite unconcerned at the odd sight they made. Once headed back down again, they made slow progress on the winding stair; stopped for a word by nearly every soul who headed the other way. Of course the City's Guard would know their new Steward but Éowyn shook her head, wondering at how Faramir remembered so many names.
"Statistics," he replied, when she voiced the question. "There is a nearly even chance that any one of them will called Hallas or Turgon or even Hurin. It is tradition to use the Steward's family's names. I pity the poor lad with Hyarmendacil."
The stair wound down through the dark jut of the City's eastern prow and seemed to go on forever. By the time they reached the lower circle Éowyn began to feel a little frayed and thankful to hear the barrack before they spied its well-worn, iron-banded door.
Song and stomping and a lively jig oozed out with the light between the jamb.
Faramir pushed the heavy wood panel wide to find a thicket of tanned, weatherbeaten men—clad not in the black and silver of the City but the green and grey and brown of Ithilien's remaining guard. They sat carousing in a long oblong space. Rough wooden tables and benches, rubbed smooth by long years of use, graced the rush strewn floor. Low chairs and chests crowded round a great hearthside above which gleamed assorted drinking horns and racks. Much prized windows were set high into the farther wall.
It was homely and warm and already filled with the fug of sweat and beer.
Faramir grinned and stepped into a pool of amber torchlight.
The music stopped and to a man they stood.
He nodded gravely once into the ringing quiet, swallowing hard before smartly saluting back.
With a few, spare words of gratitude and a brief but heartfelt standing silence, he let himself be mobbed.
"Three cheers for t'Captain!" came the cry from somewhere near the back. The applause was deafening. Éowyn hung back beside the threshold, noting that every dark or tawny soul was bandaged in some way—these were the men of the company too injured to follow Mablung. They had earned their merriment and release.
By the fire a grizzled, grey whiskered sergeant with a crutch nestled a fiddle into his shoulder while a ginger-haired lad with one bandaged hand tapped on a small tambor. The music and the dancing recommenced, and as she scanned the room, (noting more than one young servant from the Houses' wards: Varan had obviously relieved a few young women of their chores), Éowyn smiled to spot one particular soldier's homely face.
Anborn had a mug in hand and a blushing Kira on his knee.
"My Lady, you found us and high time! Where have you been?" He took a large gulp of ale and wiped his foam-covered upper lip with the back of his good hand. The other was out of its sling and perched lightly on Kira's hip. She did not seem to mind. "The party's been going hours now."
From the press arout the tall figure by the door, Faramir might yet be a while. Éowyn dropped gratefully down onto the bench. "I believe we have walked right round the City, Lieutenant, and spoken to nigh every soul. The Citadel and the Court. The wards. I am lost, I think. I know this is the barracks and this is the sixth of seven circles, but I would not know how to find the Houses now."
Kira raised her hand and unerringly pointed past the firegrate. "Away around the south side of the spur, m'lady, I am sure the Lord Steward will see you safely home," she added shyly. "Mind you set out for your bed before the changing of the guard. They shut the Houses' gate at the starting of the middle watch."
Would that be full midnight? Éowyn was unsure but then the thought sped away as a mug of something encouragingly foamy was thrust into her hand. She took a cautious sip. It was lighter than the beer she brewed at home, thin and pale, only mildly hoppy, and it took her then that memories of colour stick from childhood. Beer to Éowyn was a brighter, deeper gold. Dark like the barley of Aldburg's heavy fields, not this poor butter yellow. It made her long for Hilde's famous honeyed brew or a horn of stronger mead.
Anborn noticed her hesitation and leaned across. "Would you prefer wine? I planned ahead and borrowed some Dorwinion from the officer's mess." He pointed to a leather wineskin tucked safely below the table top.
'Borrowed'? She briefly wondered what other 'neighbourly' skills the Ranger had but shook her head. "Thank you, Anborn. This will do well enough." It would. Such thin ale would not addle her tired head and although it might not be ill to lose a little of her hard-earned self-control, the habit was hard to break.
Éowyn took a deeper draught. The noise of this smaller, almost intimate, celebration buzzed around. Torches flickered and music swirled. Tables were pushed back for dancing and platters of dried fruits and strong cheese were passed to hungry revelers. At Anborn's encouragement she burned a finger eating fresh roasted chestnuts out of a curiously heavy leaf.
Between sets of tipsy reels, when the dancers were winded and needed a short rest, yet another tall thin, black-haired Gondorian, distinguishable only by the wicked scar from eye to chin, took the floor. He sang a ballad in a high clear tenor lumbered by the heavier accent of Pelargir's docks; she could not follow all the Sindarin words but the emotion needed no translation. Pride. Honour. Love of country. After that came requests. The man, Hirlin by name, gamely picking out each favourite until faltering at what sounded from the rhythm to be a southern shanty.
"Let the Captain have a go!" someone hollered and the crowd all clapped.
"He always knows every word," Anborn whispered, and Faramir flushed at the attention, a slight smile playing about his lips. It was clear they all expected him to agree. In the face of concerted clapping and a little shoving he shrugged good-naturedly, raised his own goblet to his lips for a bracing gulp, then pushed out into the open space.
The rich baritone that picked up the tune was nowhere as striking as the first, but it was absolutely unabashed. Faramir sang easily, with confidence, imbuing what she soon realized was a rather ribald song (about Uinen and Ossë and just how the Lady of the Sea distracted her lover long enough to calm the waves) with a dignity it perhaps did not quite deserve. She clapped delightedly with all the rest. That Faramir sang was a welcome surprise. It was a much vaunted skill among her people: to be accomplished at performing the many teaching ballads was a point of honour and she herself had sung many times before the Golden Hall; as the King's Sister-Daughter it was her duty to sing to rest their bravest warriors. When would there be time to honour Théoden and Théodred? How many more times would she sing in the days and weeks to come?
With a quick sign to ward off ill luck from her maudlin thoughts, she turned her attention back again. Faramir had nearly finished. By the time he waved away more offers and ducked back beside her at the bench, his face was flushed and free of care. The fiddle struck up again and the floor soon filled with whooping men and a few swirling skirts, even a man or two paired off and dancing with each other as they did out on patrol.
"Do you know this dance?" he asked, gesturing to the floor.
She shook her head. "I do not."
The piece had an odd, almost restricted motion; part jig in place, part half-hearted reel. She supposed it would be economical with space and mayhap that was the point. From what little Faramir had said of the refuges in Ithilien, the company were quite used to confined, close quarters.
"It surprises me," she admitted.
"How so?"
She nodded to a laughing Kira who was steering a none-too steady private through the steps. "It is not the least bit fussy or complicated, if yon man's success is to be judged."
Faramir laid a hand across his breast and laughed. "No indeed. This is not a full dress ball in Merethrond complete with formal kit and gloves and major to call the several thousand steps." He looked askance and grinned. "I daresay, we have something of a reputation."
"We or I?" Éowyn blurted before she could stop herself.
A black eyebrow rose. "Which would you prefer?"
Abashed she dropped her gaze into her lap and played uncertainly with the threads on her bandaged arm. Was this flirting? Was she expected to keep up? And more to the point did she wish to?
It was she who had boldly asked to accompany him. It never served to half jump a fence.
Éowyn lifted her eyes up and boldly held his gaze. "Neither Gondor nor her steward are quite what I imagined."
The second eyebrow rose. "Really?" Faramir drawled slowly.
"I did not expect Gondor's highest noble to blurt 'Morgoth's Balls' on the practice field. Nor quite so easily buck all the rules. Stoningland has a reputation of order and protocol to uphold."
Faramir chuckled and saluted with his cup. "You have me there. A reputation that this crew will surely wipe out this night." He leaned back, stretched out his long legs and glanced across to the now woefully wobbling private. Kira had abandoned him for Anborn's steadier arms but it had not stopped the man from bouncing haphazardly to the tune.
"He's listing to starboard."
'Pardon?"
"Drunk." Faramir explained. "I apologize. My Uncle and Grandfather were both steeped in sailing terms. What would you say in Edoras?"
Éowyn giggled and covered her mouth. " He's 'on the wrong hoof', like a horse that can't find the lead." She downed the last of her ale and made a face. "A state I am sure to avoid if I have to down much more of this yellow water."
Faramir straightened up immediately. "We can't have that." His long arm reached across the tabletop to a forest of dark-filled bottles. "Let me find you something more to your taste. It is not likely to be the best but surely better than what I served you the other night."
"Nay." She stopped his rise with a light hand upon his arm and he frowned quizzically.
How to explain? All day she had felt on the edge of some great precipice, perched between light and dark, and though they celebrated, though she had taken his hand and turned to face the light, she still had a sense of disquiet underneath. As if events were spinning faster that she could catch.
Losing her head (and tongue) to drink would only give them more control.
The flagon thudded softly on the scarred tabletop. "Faramir, before you ask, I have no intention of listing to any compass point. This is not the night to show I can imbibe, intelligently or otherwise. I would not have you carry me home 'off hoof' yourself and injured."
An embarrassed flush swept upwards from the hollow of his throat. "I beg to differ. You need not fear being dumped unceremoniously on the stones, Éowyn. Not with my so-called gift."
Ah. How ever had she forgotten? That he had not suffered unduly from the unorthodox sedative was welcome. Faramir had spoken truly of its affect and while that thought reassured, it disconcerted.
The sudden sharp reminder of their odd exchange felt like an unexpected dousing in the frigid Snowbourn. By what magic had she heard his thoughts? He spoke of a gift as if it were a real ability; like a sense, natural and innate. The idea was strange and seemingly impossible, yet that part of her heart that wanted to trust another, craved it even, wished it to be true.
To 'see' another, to know that they could be trusted- that would be a gift.
The night before, mind whirling hard, Eowyn had not slept. No amount of tossing and turning settled her fractious thoughts and so she had arisen; sought the garden wall as questions chased their tails like hounds stuck full of burrs.
Did he know that she had heard? It seemed likely not—he would have been far more embarrassed in the moment- but what did that signify? Was her 'hearing' not deliberate? Had she 'eavesdropped' on him herself? She longed to ask, to know more about this strange affinity that they shared, but did not know how to begin. There had been no time, no proper place and now answers must wait for another day.
Her mind could not be trusted yet to be cogent with her words.
Faramir sat back down and if he found her sudden quiet puzzling it did not show. He left her to her musings, sat at ease quietly watching the revelers with interest, fingers tapping in time to the beat. At length he rose and excused himself, made his slow way across the sea of Men, gaining at last the threshold of a low stone lintel that lead to another hall. From the contrast traffic she guessed it must gain the privy.
Éowyn was about to rise and ask where she might find a skin of water when Private Eldrin, blushing furiously, cleared his throat and shyly bowed over her proffered hand.
"My lady, would you care for this next dance?"
She hesitated. The music was lively, pleasingly so; a pipe had been added to the mix and it was a fast reeling tune but a Gondorian reel, she could not forget that. There would absolutely be no vying to lift lasses above one's waist and the steps were certain to be twisted as a tunnel snake.
And she had little hope of following.
"Private...I…"
She could not avoid a quick look down. Her doeskin shoes peeked out from below her hem. They looked a wreck. Stained and split near the toe, smudged beyond all hope of cleaning but miraculously still together. The thought of further abuse was unappealing and it was a long walk back.
Eldrin, smart and gallant lad, must have guessed the source of her temporizing for he followed her gaze for the just barest moment, astoundingly sank even lower in his bow.
"I assure you, my lady I will do my utmost to not trod upon your toes."
"Five castars says he does!"
Anborn's tenor boomed across from the bar where he and another Ranger were tipping over a large cask of ale. The cheek! Éowyn opened her mouth to protest but then paused and bit her lip. Were there prohibitions on betting in Minas Tirith? She had no idea. There certainly were none in the Riddermark: every Eorling loved a horse race and betting made it only sweeter. Not wanting to embarrass Faramir in front of his men, she took note of the reassuring smiles of anticipation that raced full speed around the room.
Man after none-too-sober man searched his pockets for spare coin. This was evidently routine and what happened next neatly reinforced that fact.
"Ten says she dumps him before the second set!" someone called raucously above the music.
Béma. That did it! Such nerve from a smooth-cheeked Stonging boy!
A daughter of the Royal House of Eorl never quit.
To loud hoots and whistles she rose with all the icy dignity that she could muster, set her shoulders back, swept her unbound golden hair straight back out of the way and placed her good hand in Eldrin's right.
Her splinted arm settled comfortably at his elbow. "Twenty says he won't Lieutenant!" she shot back to thunderous applause.
By her next breath Eldrin had whisked her out into the tune. The reel was fast, as fast as she feared and quite intricate. To the sound of stamping, clapping Rangers and their guests they made two turns of the oaken floor, skipping and spinning back and forth; once or twice turning entirely the wrong way round and needing Eldrin to affect a hasty rescue.
It was fun and fervid and by their second turn she was laughing and whooping at each corner with all the rest, enjoying herself so much that she almost forgot the wager. She craned her neck across Eldrin's shoulder to catch a very satisfying amount indeed of coin changing hands.
As she suspected, the lanky Private was a sure bet.
"Do you have a sweetheart? " Éowyn asked when they reached the head of the row again, pausing long enough to catch their breath. Unlike many of the younger men he had behaved with strict decorum. Not once had he sought to steal a kiss from any of the blushing girls nor had his hands wandered on her waist.
A sudden flush ran straight up to his sandy brow. "I do, my lady. My fiancé. Eliane. Annwn and Madril's eldest girl. She's gone with her mam to Tolfalas Isle. I hope that they will be back before the King arrives."
"I hope so, too." said Éowyn and meant it. He was a kind young man, working valiantly to lead her in the dance and too mannerly to let on that she, so unfamiliar with the steps, had squashed his toes. Keeping her feet moving without tripping had become oddly difficult.
As they swept into the new measure Éowyn found herself challenged by the effort to make her mind and mouth work all at once. It should not be this hard.
And the anemic unworthy ale could not possibly be the culprit.
"May I cut in?"
A cultured voice from just beyond her elbow gave her a sudden start.
The music had slowed, the dancers now coupled off and Faramir had snuck back quietly as a cat. He stood, dark head inclined in query, looking from Eldrin back to her with a decided twinkle in his eyes and twist of humour to his lips.
"Private?" She glanced up to the younger man. Eldrin still smiled, genuinely it appeared, but perhaps it was time to give his light boots a rest from target practise.
She dropped her sword hand and curtseyed briefly. "You may."
At her regal nod Faramir swept her up in a pair of long strong arms. Unlike Eldrin, he held her waist quite firmly, subtly guiding her with little shifts of steady fingers.
It felt safe and at once exciting; floating across the floor and pressed so very close. His chest was warm and solid, his long hair brushed her cheek and the heat of his hand seeped through the fabric of her dress.
Éowyn forgot herself in the enjoyment, no longer worried where to put her feet,
"What was so amusing?" she asked at last, leaning in to whisper next his ear.
He smiled and turned them quickly, pressing her so close she felt the rumble of his amusement.
"I cannot have Anborn with too swelled a head and purse. They were getting ready to lay bets again."
She pulled back to better see his face. "Whatever do you mean? His steps were perfect. I still win. It was not Eldrin on my toes!"
His mouth quirked. "Should I have noticed?"
"You are a Ranger. If no I must entertain grave doubts about your ability to even spot an Orc!"
Faramir glanced down, incredulous. "Do you expect my men can see straight enough to properly adjudicate? You have more faith in them than I!"
Éowyn felt a laugh bubble up. Of course he had been watching her. With a coiling thrill of happiness unwinding in her chest she leaned into his warmth and gave herself to the lilting of the fiddle.
Round and round they spun and somehow the sand in the hourglass ceased to fall—it was magical and suddenly so effortless. The hand that clasped in hers was solid, the bicep below her left hard and wiry, trained to fight, not soft like some of Gondor's nobles who toured the wards and the sense of it sent a melting languidness to her core.
They turned again. Callused fingers hugged at her waist and laced tighter with her own. Her skin prickled from the contact. What would it feel like to have their rough strength touch her nape?
"Have you noticed there are no bets now…?"
"Pardon?"
Faramir's sudden words started Éowyn out of her guilty reverie. She tripped, almost losing purchase before he quickly clasped her harder, steadying her firmly until she settled once again.
"No." Éowyn's cheeks flamed in embarrassment. She had noticed little outside the ring of him. "Are they afraid of retribution from the chief?"
"No. They know my reputation. I love to dance. One of my favourite parts of ending a patrol is being back for the barracks ball. My feet are as smooth as my cheek."
The rogue! Now Faramir was teasing. She had not quite forgiven him for shaving off his beard but his chuckle was low, pitched just for the two of them, and between the sound and the scent of musk and herb that clung Éowyn found her knees became oddly weak.
It was hard to keep composure.
When she tripped a second time he stopped still in the middle of the floor and frowned. "Are you tired?"
"A little." She was. The music had moved on to yet another song and she had missed the shift. "What time is it?"
His mouth quirked. "Past due we should have left but late enough to hold our heads up high."
"But the townhouse?"
"Will still be there come morning. I confess to feeling a little like a limp wet rag myself." Faramir rolled his injured shoulder awkwardly. "I am starting to ache in my bones. Shall we go?"
We?
The torchlight swam as Éowyn stood blearily and sighed. It would be blissful to lose herself in the pure joy of good company but it had been a long and extremely trying day.
She was tired and did not know the way.
And had no doubt Elfhelm and the Riders could welcome Anor's rise without her.
Shyly, slowly, Éowyn slipped her arm through his. "Lead me home, good Captain."
'
~~~000~~~
.
They snuck back through a world made dim and mysterious; the moon's light casting shadows of indigo and grey on the white sleeping stone.
Éowyn told herself his hand about her arm was simple consideration but it did not feel quite so. Neither of them it seemed wished to lose the thread, the feeling of connection but a stronger feeling of relief stole up when they spied the carved archway with its stone shield and Este's sigil of somber grey.
"Of course." Faramir muttered to the high dark space as Éowyn came abruptly to a halt.
"Oh…"
The gate was tightly shut and barred. They could not get in without raising the night porter and likely half the staff.
Éowyn felt her shoulders droop. "We are too late."
Reluctantly she turned down slope. Imrahil's townhouse in the was who knew farther on but at least she could hope that Lothíriel would offer them a bed.
Faramir tugged on her arm. "This way. North, not south."
"Where?" she groaned, too bleary eyed to tell which way was up, let alone direction by only Varda's stars. Faramir's tall back retreated in the gloom. Her tired limbs did not wish to turn but she forced herself, uncertain of where was he going. North was where-back to the barracks? Was not the gate for the Fifth back the way they came? As she came abreast Faramir explained the source of her confusion.
"There is another entrance…"
"There is?!"
He led her along the hushed thoroughfare to what at first looked merely like another section of the Houses' dust-covered wall. Faramir ran his fingers across the stone, probing at a thin dark line and then Éowyn could see it: a narrow shortish wooden door. White- washed and cunningly painted with fake veins and mottled patches to match the White Mountain's fabled marble.
It had no discernible handle or hinge and none would take it for an opening.
"This leads inside the Houses?" she asked, brows furrowed in a line.
"Eventually," Faramir explained. "It is meant as a way for the occupants to flee should the inner court be taken. I have not been in it since I was a boy but Father had the old passages unbarred and stocked after we lost Osgiliath." He frowned and placed a hand upon the wood. "We should come out by the eastern garden wall."
The door yielded to his push. Inside was dark as pitch, the low tunnel's ceiling was roughly rounded and the space was barely wide enough for a litter to be carried.
Faramir bent, offered a word of thanks to the City Guard for the clean lantern and fresh tinder and struck a light.
Its glow showed a long disused, dusty but mercifully empty space.
"It might have been easier to rouse the porter," she said uncertainly.
"And face the wagging of Ioreth's tongue?" Faramir shook his head. "Not likely. She was to be in charge of the wards tonight after Aunt Rini finished up."
Ah. "I see your point." If they were to spend many minutes being 'spoken to' by the loquacious nurse it would be cock crow before they found their beds.
They picked their way slowly, twisting round corners with care, Faramir taking her good hand and steadying her on the worn stone underfoot. She was thankful for it, the tunnel was dry but sloped: short flights of a few crude steps came upon them suddenly and she had to concentrate. The lantern helped but cast angled shadows that in the curve made seeing too far ahead impossible.
At one sloping stretch Faramir yelped and bumped his head.
"It seemed higher when I was four," he said, sheepishly, dropping her hand to rub at his offended scalp.
"It was," Éowyn remarked drily with a smile. She ran a finger over the rough stone wall. The surface was not smooth like the planed City walls: three thousand years after Minas Tirith's founding the ridges and grooves of hammer blows could still be felt. To one used to wattle and daub it was an amazing feat. "This would have been heavy work to excavate."
"Yes. There are wonderful drawings in the archive that show the plans." Faramir raised his hand to his eyes and peered into the gloom ahead. "The Houses and the Barracks, the Palace and the Citadel all have hidden tunnels. The last time these passages were used for other than childish pranks was in the time of the usurper Castamir." He glanced back and flashed her a sudden smile. "I still cannot quite believe they won't be needed. Only this morning I awoke worrying how quickly folk could be moved. To be here, and free, the Shadow lifted, seems verily like a dream."
Eowyn smiled in turn. "A good dream for a change, " she said, knowing both their rests had been plagued since the Pelennor by the stench of fear and the rustle of great dark wings.
Faramir squeezed her hand and they pressed on.
Several more minutes of travelling reached another wooden door. This one looked more aged, its rough wood was warped and split but though Éowyn braced herself for disappointment, the oiled hinges turned perfectly smoothly.
Bema's blessed horn. She hadn't fancied the idea of traversing the space again.
At the verge she followed Faramir out, jumping down a step to find her feet on the turf below the garden wall. Ahead the shuttered windows of the eastern sleeping wing hung like dark eyes in the bright white of the wall. All the lights were out but one: the third from the south. Hers. A servant must have a left a lamp waiting for her return. She gathered up her hem and picked her way between the flower beds. Almost home. The thought of flopping down fully clothed on her bed and sleeping the next day round put a new spring in her step.
On the gravel below her faintly glowing window, they paused. "Do you fancy sneaking down the hall under Varan's nose or should I boost you up?" Faramir asked, eyeing the height of the sill. It was low, waist high and meant to let in the morning breeze in heat of the summer months.
"You would? You could?" As much as the idea of flouting the Master Healer held great appeal, Éowyn was done. Not another step. She desired to be inside now.
"I would."
Faramir seemed quite certain, and so she reached for the shutter's base, pried at its lower lip with her fingertips. It did not budge. The wood was wedged tight and fast against the stone, the shutter must be locked. Bema. No choice now but to take their chances in the hall. She began to turn away, mentally brace herself for Ioreth's quick tongue, when a quick flast of steel caught her eye.
One twist of Faramir's dagger had undone the inside latch.
She looked from the open room to the grinning Ranger's face in shock. "How did you learn that trick?"
"Boromir," was all the comment her surprise received.
"A most unconventional lesson to pass to a little brother."
Faramir shrugged expressively and she shook her head. How many bedrooms had the hard-living Captain-General bolted out of? Dozens? Hundreds, if the legends of a grinning bear of a man with an appetite for life to match were to be believed. "There must be a story."
He flushed. "There is, and one day soon we will sit by a fire and I will recount it. I promise."
"I will look forward to it."
Faramir neatly sheathed the dagger once more but now stilled, brow furrowed, fumbling with something on his belt. "Valar. I am an idiot. I nearly forgot. The reason I came to find you earlier this morn."
Éowyn swayed a little, reminding herself he meant yesterday. Must they do this now? She was so tired she was not sure she keep her feet. "What is it?" His hands were working an unfamiliar toggle rather more clumsily than the window.
"Your dagger."
A stained leather sheath was slipped from off his belt and a blade emerged. Chased in gold, with running steeds and stags chasing across the open wold. She hardly dared to breathe as cool steel was pressed by strong fingers into her palm.
"How?" But her mouth would not form the words. Théodred's dagger. The one lost after the Pelennor. Her last piece of him. She had thought it gone, mourned at its loss.
It was, as a gesture, thoughtful and caring and considerate. And all too much.
Damn the man. Shieldmaidens do not cry.
For the second time that night that Éowyn felt herself near to tears, felt a pair of tears streak down across her now dusty cheeks.
Gallantly Faramir pulled out a kerchief, passed it across and said not a word at the display. "We are not to have weapons in the Houses," he explained as she scrubbed away the evidence. "It was taken from you but not mislaid. I had a word with Loic. The haft was tagged incorrectly with your brother's name."
She stared dumbfoundedly at the little square of parchment hanging down. Of course. Éomer had been there when her wound was tended by Aragorn. Likely it was he who had given the dagger over to a servant. The mistake was easy enough to make-one who spoke Sindarin might not catch the different sounds with the similarity of their names.
"I…."
Faramir shrugged. "It mattered to you. It was little enough to do."
Little enough but meant so very much. He stood patiently while she tucked the precious talisman into her belt, wiped her cheeks again. Strands of her long blond hair stuck to her cheek where it was wet. Gently, hesistantly, skittish as a colt, he reached out to tuck a stray piece behind her ear. It was sticky with spider silk, as much a mess as the rest of her, but she could not bring herself to care.
"Thank you," Éowyn murmured. Her heart was so full. How it had not blocked up all her breath? "You are…"
His half-smile smile was wry. ""Hopeless? Oblivious? Messy? All have been said before."
She wanted to laugh and cry at once. The disarming and self-deprecating charm that had attracted her would not let him accept a compliment. "Kind." she finished.
His mouth twisted briefly in a grimace. "Oh dear. The endearment every suitor dreads. But that I am."
Dreads. 'Kind' was so clearly not the adjective he had hoped. What did he mean? Éowyn searched his face. Without her noticing they had closed the little space between and the hand that had touched her hair now held her wrist. She tried to quell the sudden thudding of her heart. "Are you?"
"Am I what?"
A suitor...
The words seemed like so very small a thing to say and yet so great. Once she would have doubted her newborn feelings as sane and true, but now, this night, they seemed no more impossible than salvation. They had suffered together; grieved; worked. Found an ease and affinity that must be more than passing fancy. Between them a wall had come tumbling down and she must choose the path to take.
Had not Théoden-King spoken boldly on a windy step? The time for fear is past.
Shaking like a leaf before a sudden storm Éowyn looked into his clear grey eyes and answered clearly. "A suitor."
Elation and surprise flashed across his handsome face. "Truly?! You would have my answer?"
Éowyn felt oddly light yet rooted to the spot. Her words now would change her life. Could she do this? Could she follow her heart beyond the last edge of bitter rime? Let go a vision for the flesh and blood Man who stood before?
She took a deeper breath. And nodded. "I would. You used the word. I ask you to speak plain."
"Yes! Yes, Éowyn!" Faramir threw back his head and cried delightedly. He raised her hand in his and now they stood transfixed, gazing wonderingly at each other as the moment stretched, tremulous and full of possibility.
He smiled, wide and wondering, and suddenly her feet so light she could float above the mountain's peak. "Oh my lady, when first we met I said that you were beautiful, and though my tongue ran before my heart I say that it spoke true. You are beautiful. And brave. And I am beyond blessed to have this chance."
Grey eyes, once so uncertain and full of mirrored starlight, now stirred with darker fire. The long fingers that held her wrist turned it upward to the sky.
Against the flush of her suddenly heated skin they felt quite cool "May I?"
"Oh yes."
Faramir bent his raven head; brushed lips across the soft skin below her palm. The kiss was gentle, just the slightest press of surer warmth melting across her skin, but still it set her cheeks aflame; sent a singing fire all through her veins. A promise. Of more. And she understood then what her head had failed to convince her heart for days.
Yavanna, I am lost.
They drew apart. Faramir laid down her hand and looked up through the swaying leaves. Tilion had sailed Ithil as high as he would go. A stronger breeze now danced in the branches; set the moonlight to glimmering on Theo's blade and the metal of the lamp.
"I must go," he sighed. "The watch will change and there will be healers about quite soon."
She hesitated, wanting the magic of that night to never end, but he was right. They would both be better in the morn for hours of needed sleep. "Rest well," she murmured.
"And you."
He dropped his hand and his good arm slid about her waist. In one quick move she was up and over the window sill and beyond the shutters he was gone. Even the quiet crunch of gravel soon faded and she was left, still trembling, not quite sure that it had not all been a fevered dream.
No. Her pulse still thrummed to the spot his lips had touched.
Éowyn closed the window, shed her slippers wearily, wriggled her cramped toes and left the ruined doeskin blithely in the middle of the floor. By the bedside she did not undress: the ties were too hard with her bandaged arm and truly, she was quite happy to fall down upon the coverlet. The night was warm. Her hair would be a bird's nest but she did not care. Kira would help her on the morrow.
Undoing the simple clasp of her girdle, she set it with Théodred's dagger upon the low dresser, let her leaden body sink down onto the neat expanse of feather bed, and gratefully laid her head upon the pillow.
Éowyn closed her eyes. Sleep would take its time to come; her limbs ached, not with the sharp heaviness of injury but with the prickling energy of too much use. She considered ringing the bell, asking for a posset but nothing could induce her to lift her arm so far. Better to settle on her own.
After too many minutes of restless stretching, twisting this way and that, she finally found some comfort; crossed her faintly throbbing arm across her stomach for support and willed her body to uneasy peace.
There.
At first she thought it better-nothing now need impede her dreams, but soon she found it was not so.
Her sword hand felt unsettled. Too light. Oddly untethered to the world and all at once it struck her why that should be.
The garden wall. The ward. The Citadel and barracks. Her window.
In dread or happiness it had not changed.
At every place her fingers had been laced with his. They had held hands almost the entire day.
.
.
We have, as you may have noticed, *grin*, apparently diverted a teensy bit from canon here. We are now in the days that Tolkien spoke of as 'golden' but gave us no detail. How do we get from this chapter to the 'Kiss on the walls" where Faramir is uncertain of his reception?. Well, as noted by the Bard in a certain summer's frolic: "the course of true love never did run smooth." Stay tuned…there are some rocky shoals to navigate ahead—wherein green-eyed monsters lurk.
For those of you who have noticed the lovely avatar made by Mythlorn-art—this is the scene by the garden window that he painted it for. Please do check how his gorgeous work on tumblr. Elves are a particular specialty.
Big thank yous for beta'ing go to Eschiziola and Wheelrider this month, and to Annafan, Thanwen and Artura for comments and encouragement.