Éowyn barely had time to gasp before her brother seized Faramir from her and pinned him against the wall, the muscles of his arm bulging in an angry effort not to apply more pressure and effectively suffocate the Steward, who was, to put matters mildly, surprised.

"Who do you think you are?" bellowed the King of Rohan, his free hand twitching at his side.

Éowyn turned hopefully to Lothíriel, but the poor girl appeared unable to do more than stare in horror at the scene before her.

"Éomer, let him down!" cried Éowyn, hurriedly attempting to rearrange her hair and gown as she approached the grappling pair.

"Keep yourself out of this, sister," was her brother's gruff reply.

For all Faramir's years as a Ranger, he had never engaged in a physical fight; unfortunately, his opponent had, many a time. His steady strength was no match for the other man's adrenalin-fused power, in this situation. He struggled to wrench Éomer's arm from his throat, but only succeeded in being lifted several inches from the ground.

"I shall certainly not 'keep myself out of it'," hissed Éowyn, in a menacing tone which caused both men to involuntarily flinch. "Unhand my lover, Éomer."

"Lover?" He spat on the ground. "He treats you like some common whore and you'll call him your lover?"

He soon regretted his rash words, for a saddle was immediately hurled at him, and for all his breadth knocked him to the ground.

"Insufferable swine!"

Lothíriel hovered in the corner uncertainly, torn between rushing to her cousin or to the handsome king. And then, there was the matter of Éowyn, who had morphed into a strange sort of whirlwind tempest within moments. Coming within throwing range of her would doubtlessly be unwise.

The king sat up gruffly, and wiping the blood from his lip where the saddle had hit him, stood – unsteadily, and apparently abandoning any plans of physically assaulting Faramir.

"How dare you?" yelled Éowyn, reaching for another saddle.

"Calm yourself, sister–"

"Calm myself? You're one to talk, sire! The only reason you're calm is because I hit you on the head!"

"You don't understand! He's using you!" This time, he ducked before he and the saddle could collide.

"You know nothing! The only reason we have to be so bloody secretive about everything is that you're such an upright little pig!"

"So that episode of falling from your mare was fabricated?" The bitterness in his tone was palpable.

"Obviously."

"I should have known," he laughed frostily.

"Oh, yes, your sister the whore, as you so delicately put it. I wouldn't have to act like it if you weren't such a damned bastard!"

"That's it. The escort will leave tomorrow; and do not expect to return." Éomer turned to leave, steadied for another saddle aimed at his head; but instead of the whooshing and clinking of a projectile, there was silence.

"I should have died with Uncle," said Éowyn quietly, her shoulders hunching dejectedly.

"Don't be a fool," said Éomer, turning back towards her.

"But it is true. I would have saved everyone a lot of pain."

"That's ridiculous. You caused enough pain as it was when your survival was uncertain." The irritation in his voice concealed the terror which suddenly clutched his heart.

"I'm sorry," she said, whispering now. Glancing at Éomer to confirm his personal survival, Faramir moved towards Éowyn, and clasping her shoulders firmly, with his head bowed to level with hers, forced her to meet his searching eyes. "You committed no crime," he said. "Do not apologize."

The 'take your hands off my sister' had nearly slipped out of Éomer's mouth automatically when he noticed that she was smiling at the Steward, gratefulness bringing tears to her eyes. He almost choked with realization.

This man was better for her than he was.

Feeling the urge to cry and laugh simultaneously, he turned to leave, and thereupon saw that Lothíriel still stood where he had left her, visibly shaken but her gaze understanding.

"Oh, Bema," he muttered, feeling the weight of guilt heavy upon his conscience. He offered his arm to her and she took it, and they walked back up to the Citadel in a shocked sort of comfortable silence.

It had been an insane night, and was blamed by all on the drink. Emotions had been raw and foolish and half-ripe, and rash words had been uttered. The consequences for some could very well be disastrous. But for the time being, the only thing Éowyn of Rohan could concentrate on was nursing her pounding headache and unstable stomach.

"Would you like some more syrup, milady?" asked a chambermaid timidly, probably unaccustomed to dealing with a hungover lady.

"Yes," came the indistinct groan of a reply, from Éowyn's general direction. It was impossible to tell where exactly she was, for upon reuniting with daylight she had hastily retreated to the darkness of her bedclothes, with a string of words in Rohirric which would have made the chambermaid blush had she understood, and which even now she was repeating over and over in her head.

Only brief snippets of the eve remained in her memory, and she could not tell how she had made it to her bedchamber. She remembered something – something very much delectable, at that – involving Faramir, and something less delectable by a fair margin to do with Éomer, but as to the details, she hadn't the slightest recollection. The only clear thing she could recall was gently falling asleep in Faramir's arms, but that had not been here in her chambers... However beginning to consider these thoughts was only worsening her headache, and she promptly banished them from her mind.

When she had managed to start acting like a normal human being, having dressed and washed her face and been pulled away from her bed several times by the dutiful chambermaid, a knock came at the door. Not finding the concept of company a pleasant one, she hesitated before rising and walking towards the doorway, all the while cursing herself for having dismissed the maid only minutes before.

"My lady," said Éothain, bowing as she swung the door open.

"Éothain! Oh, good. I thought I might have some awkward Gondorian counsellor on my hands for the morning, and with this awful headache, I do not think I could have managed. Come in, please."

"So you are also suffering the consequences of last night?" asked Éothain, smiling grimly and taking a seat by the extinguished fireplace.

"Painfully so." She dropped into the chair opposite him with exhausted inelegance and an unladylike 'oof'.

"I can't remember the last time I was so drunk."

"I can. The feast in Éomer's honour when he became a Marshall?"

"That was aeons ago," laughed Éowyn.

"All the more worrying – you were this titchy little girl joining in with the stupid young fellows, and we were so wrecked we didn't notice you were the worst of us! Éomer nearly killed us the next day when he realized."

"Bema, I was adventurous," she giggled, remembering with hilarity the infamous night in question. She had been so sick she had cringed at the sight of ale for weeks afterwards; but it had not been too difficult, because her brother had been very careful to have all alcoholic beverages steered well away from her while Théodred laughed merrily at the spectacle. She felt a tinge of grief at the unexpected memory of her late cousin, but it soon subsided as Éothain endeavoured to list the humorous events of the feast.

"But, Éowyn, I was sent here by your brother, you know," he said, after an entertaining while spent reminiscing over their misspent youths on horseback and in taverns, his smile a little less natural than before.

"Yes? What did he want?"

"He, er... He wanted me to tell you that the funeral escort is leaving today."

"Today?"

"Yes. As soon as possible after nuncheon."

"But – why? I thought we were due to go in a week's time."

"We were, but he came to me this morning – and believe you me, I was not happy at being woken so early – and he said we needed to leave today, something about the weather being too hot soon, I don't know. Either way, his word is law, so that's that and I think I shall miss the pretty Gondorian lasses."

"Well, then, take one home." Éowyn stood and walked over to her chest of drawers, beginning to remove her belongings and place them in the bags they had been brought in; but though he could not see for himself whether her smile had vanished or not, Éothain could discern the distress in her voice.

"Éowyn..."

"You ought to go and pack your own things, Éothain."

"Listen, I'm sorry about you and the Steward, I am. But Éomer is a good man, and if you do love whatshisface then he will eventually realize it."

"It's Faramir."

"What?"

"His name. It's Faramir."

"Oh. Right. Well, I am busy – you may have bags to pack but I have the Rohirrim to awaken! – but if you need to talk to someone, I will be there. And, er, also, a word of advice: during the ride to Edoras, don't talk to Farahil."

"Faramir, Éothain." She could not suppress the giggle which escaped from her lips.

"They're all the same!" cried Éothain from the corridor as he strode away from her chambers, and despite her unhappiness she smiled. If she had stayed in Gondor, she would have dearly missed her friends, few as they may be; at least this small comfort could console her.

Éomer watched, from his seat at the head of the long table where his guests ate, as they conversed between themselves, some obviously in deep mourning of Théoden, others making merry despite the mood. Although he himself had been grieved to speak again of his deceased uncle and predecessor, and he disliked the words he would soon have to utter, he felt within him a warm sort of finality. At last, no matter what he had expected, this burden would be off his shoulders; and he was experiencing that sudden confidence of doing the right thing. He perceived Éowyn, miserably sipping from her goblet and looking as raw as she had during Théoden's burial... Knowing he might bring some solace to her in her hour of grief comforted him greatly. And as he had mulled over his decision all the way to Rohan, he had begun to grow fond of it, and even appreciate it; and it was with a broad smile that he stood and addressed his guests again.

"Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister."

At the sound of her name, she glanced up, confusion now replacing the sorrow in her expression. He could not bring himself to meet her gaze, for fear he might suddenly default on the promise he had silently made her; but he could feel her curiosity boring into him.

"Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as we have never before gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all!"

The named pair stood, open mouths soon vanishing to leave disbelieving but ecstatic smiles in their stead, and as tradition had it they clasped hands before the cheering guests; to whose further mirth Éowyn threw her arms around her Steward without warning and kissed him passionately.

And as Éomer met the gaze of a certain young princess seated towards the far end of the table, past the wolf-whistling and clapping, he realized that this marriage he had been so opposed to was not such a foul thing after all.

Well, that's it! I suppose the ending's slightly awkward but I can leave the details to your imagination, 'cause I really wanted to finish it off from Eomer's POV. Anywho, thanks for putting up with five whole chapters of absolute amateurishness (that is a word) and I hope you enjoyed it! And thanks also for all the feedback which really motivated me to continue.