Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Éomer looked out from Meduseld, his breath misting in the cold February air. “A horseman approaches Edoras.”
His sister shaded her eyes and stared silently for a long moment. “From Gondor, I deem, from his livery.”
Éomer met his sister’s eyes. “Lord Boromir, mayhap?”
“What are you looking at, Éomer son of Eomund?” Gríma Wormtongue had crept behind them while they were preoccupied.
Éomer looked at Wormtongue with dislike. “A rider from Gondor approaches, or so we think.”
“Ahh,” said Gríma Wormtongue, “‘Tis probably Lord Boromir, as you said, Éomer.”
“I wonder if he found the hobytlan?” Éomer wondered aloud.
“It was a fool’s errand. I do not think these creatures exist,” said Gríma, rubbing his hands together, and watching Éowyn. “I am surprised that Lord Denethor would send one of his sons away at this hour, but no doubt he has his reasons.”
Éowyn said nothing, but turned on her heel and went back into Meduseld. Gríma followed her.
Éomer hoped that Boromir would be able to advise them on what Saruman was planning. He and Théodred could not understand why the King did not comprehend that the influx of Orcs into Rohan was related to Saruman.
He went down and stood with Háma, the door warden, and they watched the dark-haired man dismount from his horse, and climb through the streets of Edoras.
“I hope the Lord Boromir comes to bring us help,” said Háma, in their own tongue.
“Aye,” said Éomer. “For we could surely use it.”
As the man mounted the steps to Meduseld, Éomer hurried down. “Lord Boromir, your presence is very welcome and timely—” Then he stopped and stared. This man bore much similarity to Boromir, but he was taller and had finer features, and he did not smile in greeting.
Piercing pale grey eyes under dark brows met Éomer’s eyes. The man spoke quietly. “My name is Captain Faramir. Boromir is my brother. I come here to beg a boon—”
“A boon?” said Éomer, suspiciously. “Not to render aid?”
“Nay, alas,” said Faramir. “We are besieged in our own lands. I come lately from Ithilien, upon the Steward’s command.”
“We cannot help,” said Éomer.
Faramir frowned. “I understand. However, I must tell the Steward that I have done as he bid, lest he accuse me of shirking my duty.”
Éomer blinked, struck by the way the man spoke of the Steward. “He is your father, nay?”
Faramir nodded. “And my liege, therefore I must do as he commands. You have not yet done me the courtesy of telling me who you are?”
Éomer coloured. “Please forgive me, my Lord. Éomer son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, sister-son to Théoden King. Let me take you to the King—and you shall see how things are—”
“A pleasure to meet you, Éomer son of Eomund.” Faramir bowed, and Éomer bowed back.
As they reached the gate, Háma said, “Welcome Lord Boromir of Gon—!” and then stopped.
“This is his brother, Faramir. He seeks a boon. I deem the boon is his father’s idea—” said Éomer, quickly, in their tongue.
“Not to aid us?” said Háma, also in their tongue. “Well, whatever he seeks, he shall give up his weapons.”
Faramir eyed them both. “Please excuse me, but I am not fluent in your tongue. What say you?”
“You must give up your weapons at the door, my Lord,” said Éomer.
Faramir said softly, “To treat an ally thus? What, pray tell, has befallen Rohan?”
“‘Tis not my command: ‘tis the command of Gríma son of Gálmód, and therefore the word of the King,” said Háma, sending a quick guilty look at Éomer. “You give up your weapons, or you do not enter our Halls.”
“Very well.” Faramir began to unbuckle his sword. “Here, my sword.” Then he unslung a large bow from his back. “My bow and quiver.” He pulled a knife from his belt. “My knife.”
Éomer looked at the pile of weapons. “You are well-armed.”
“I am a Captain of Gondor,” said Faramir. “To ride alone through these lands is dangerous.”
In the Hall at Meduseld, Théodred was arguing with his father. “We must guard the Isen, father.”
“Nay, I forbid it,” said Théoden, in a cracked voice. Then they stopped as they saw Éomer and Faramir enter.
Théodred strode over, joy painted across his face. “Boro—!” He lifted his hand, and then let it drop, his chagrin palpable.
Faramir bowed, apparently oblivious to the disappointment. “My name is Faramir, Captain of Gondor, in my brother’s absence.” The hounds which had been lying asleep around the Hall stirred at his voice.
“I am Théodred son of Théoden, Second Marshal of Rohan—” Théodred broke off as the hounds got up and, to Éomer’s astonishment, went to Faramir and leaped up on him, licking him. Éomer reflected that at least some creatures were enthusiastic about the man’s presence.
“Down,” said Faramir—Éomer had difficulty restraining himself from laughing at the look of shock on the man’s face—but the dogs continued to gambol about him, until Théodred barked, “Sit!” at them in the tongue of Rohan. They slunk back and lay down.
Faramir approached the King, and got down on one knee. “Théoden King, I am Captain Faramir of Gondor. My father, the Steward of Gondor, bids me seek a boon of you.”
“What boon?” Théoden’s voice, Éomer could swear, had cracked more than the day before.
“We seek some Riders to assist with the patrolling of the Northern borders,” Faramir said, his head bowed.
“We can spare none,” said Gríma Wormtongue. “Tell this man of Gondor to go home and tend to his own lands.”
Faramir looked up at Gríma. “You are the King’s advisor?”
Gríma blinked as Faramir’s clear gaze settled on him, and cast his eyes down swiftly. “Gríma son of Gálmód, faithful advisor to Théoden King.”
“Faithful, indeed,” repeated Théoden, as Éomer’s heart sank.
“I see,” said Faramir, rising. “Thank you, and farewell, Théoden King. I am sorry to trouble you in these difficult times. May Rohan stay strong in the war which is surely to come.”
Éomer stared at the man. “That’s it?”
Faramir raised an eyebrow. “I am going back to Ithilien, where I am needed, having fulfilled the Steward’s command.”
Théodred shook his head. “You can’t just turn around and ride back out? You must at least eat and rest.” He turned to his father. “We cannot let the courtesy of our halls be so lacking?”
“I left my men scarce a league away with a spare horse. It is of no moment, Second Marshal Théodred. I have done as the Steward ordered, and now I shall leave.” Faramir’s face was expressionless.
“Éowyn, my cousin,” said Théodred. “Get the man of Gondor some meat before we send him on his way.”
Faramir noticed Éowyn for the first time: she had been standing silently behind the King. “Nay, nay, I shall be well. Pray, do not trouble yourself, my Lady.”
“It is no more than my usual duties, my Lord.” Éowyn turned and went out, her long gold hair like a curtain down her back.
“How go things in Ithilien, then?” said Théodred to Faramir, in a conversational way.
“Ill,” said Faramir, his eyes following Éowyn.
“How so?” said Éomer.
“We have lost Osgiliath. The Haradrim come through Ithilien and the Witch King masses Orcs in Minas Morgul.”
“That is not Rohan’s concern,” said Gríma Wormtongue.
“It may come to be,” said Faramir, looking at Gríma for a long moment. Gríma dropped his gaze again.
Chapter 2
Chapter Text
Théodred watched as his cousin Éowyn brought out mead and meat for the guest from Gondor.
“My Lady, you are most kind—” Faramir looked up at her and then broke off as he met her icy glare.
Éowyn scowled. “Make no mistake, my Lord. I am ungentle: a shield maiden of Rohan.”
Théodred met Éomer’s eyes, and Éomer shook his head a little and sighed.
“Ah. I have, in fact, read of your kind,” said Faramir, still maintaining eye contact despite the scowl, and taking the goblet from her hand. Their fingers touched slightly as he took the goblet.
To Théodred’s astonishment, Éowyn coloured. “My kind? What mean you by this?”
“I read a history of the Rohirrim and your kin who live in the North. It mentioned that women defend cot and bower with a sword when the men are abroad?”
“Betimes, we ride to war with the men,” said Éowyn, putting her chin up.
Théodred folded his arms, and said sternly, “Your role is just as this man says, Éowyn: to stay behind and protect our people.”
Éowyn’s eyes flashed. “Is that all there is for me, cousin? To stay behind with the women and children, while others take the glory?”
Faramir’s quiet voice cut through the smoky fug filling Meduseld: the fires were burning hot to combat the cold. “Life cannot be reduced to glory in battle, my Lady. There is much else of worth—”
Éowyn turned to him. “Do you lack courage, then, man of Gondor?”
“Sister!” said Éomer, with horror. “Hold your tongue!”
At the same time, Théodred said, “Please excuse my cousin, Lord Faramir—”
“Nay, I do not take offence, Marshals. The blood of Númenor runs in my veins.” Faramir stood, and Théodred realised how tall he was. “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend. ‘Tis true that I would prefer to be a scholar than a warrior. But I will fight to the death to save that I love, with all the courage that is in me. If my father bids me spend my life to defend my people, then it is a price well-paid.”
Then he bowed to the King, bowed to Éowyn, Éomer and Théodred in turn, and strode out.
Éowyn stared after him. “The arrogant prig—! He thinks he is better than us!”
“You were discourteous to a guest, sister,” said Éomer.
Théodred sighed. “Gondorim think they are better than us. They call us Middle Men, did you know? They, of course, are High Men; we are Middle Men; and the Dunlendings are Lesser Men.”
Éomer snorted. “And now Éowyn has proven our manners are indeed lesser.”
Éowyn flushed. “I served him food! I would see you serving food, brother?”
“You are a woman,” said Éomer. “As the lady of the house it is your duty—”
“Duty! You may as well trammel me in a cage and throw me in the river.” Éowyn snatched up the plate and mug, and walked out.
“By Eorl, that was awkward,” said Théodred in a quiet voice to Éomer. “Faramir is much like to Boromir in looks—but so serious. Does he never smile? And the whole mission—doomed—what is happening with the Steward that he asks his son to do this?”
Éomer grimaced. “He refers to his father as if he is a stranger?”
Théodred sighed. “From what Boromir has told me, there is a rift between the father and his brother. It pains him greatly, as he loves them both—” Then he squared his shoulders. “I must go to the Fords of the Isen, Éomer. I deem that Orcs are swarming that land.”
“Let me go,” said Éomer. “The loss is less if I am slain.”
Théodred gave him a level look. “Nay, you undervalue yourself, cousin.”
“And what do the Marshals speak about in such a quiet voice, now that my Lady Éowyn has ridded us of that man? I hope you do not think to befriend this man of Gondor, Second Marshal?” Gríma’s eyes glinted from under hooded lids, and there was an insolent inflection to his statement.
“Merely continuing the argument about the Fords of the Isen,” Éomer said.
“Nay, I do not seek to befriend Lord Faramir, not at all.” Théodred folded his arms and glared at Gríma. As a teenager, he had prayed to the gods of old to be changed. It would not have mattered so much, had he not been his father’s only child, and heir to the throne of Rohan. He had been engaged to marry a woman when he was twenty-two, an arrangement to which the two of them had assented out of a sense of duty. Léohild had died in an epidemic before they could wed. No one had suggested that he marry again.
He did not think that Éomer fully understood: it was better that Théodred sacrifice himself in battle if necessary, and his cousin take the throne. He glanced at his father. He wasn’t even sure if Théoden would notice he was absent any more.
Chapter 3
Chapter Text
After girding herself with a sword, Éowyn marched through Edoras, feeling a mixture of anger and shame. As she went, she asked if anyone had seen the Lord of Gondor. Eventually, she found him tending to his horse, the horse stamping and breathing out steam in the cold. She surreptitiously observed him for a moment: he was more handsome than Lord Boromir, in her opinion, but so solemn that one did not really mark it until he was relaxed like this.
Faramir turned swiftly at her approach, although she had approached very quietly. His hand was on his sword hilt, his expression tense. Then his eyes widened, and he took his hand off his sword hilt. “My fair Lady? Did I leave aught in those Halls?”
“Do not seek to flatter me and call me fair. You do not know what it is like for me, man of Gondor!” Éowyn had not meant to start on this footing, but she was discomforted by the martial way he bore himself and his words. “You have no idea—!”
To her annoyance, Faramir did not bite back. “I may have more idea than you think, my Lady. And I will not say you are not fair, for that would be untrue.” He stepped closer. “Forgive me, my Lady—but there is something I must tell you, privately.”
“I am not interested in hearing more blandishments,” said Éowyn.
Faramir shook his head. “Nay. Upon my oath.” So Éowyn stepped closer, and Faramir whispered in her ear, carefully not touching her. “Your Uncle, the King; his mind is clouded—”
“I know,” said Éowyn softly. “He falls into dotage.” She was disquieted to realise that Faramir smelled nice, despite his hours of travel and proximity to the horse: scents of spice and forest. She wondered how he achieved it.
“You may not, however, fully realise the nature of it—‘tis not natural—but I have not the strength to do aught about it. Even the Steward, my father could not, I deem. Moreover, there are closed rooms with locked doors in the mind of that man, Gríma son of Gálmód. Do not trust him.”
“Think you I am a fool? I sleep with my sword under my bed!” Éowyn stepped back and put her hand on the sword at her waist: something about this man was vexing her beyond what was reasonable. “Would that I had been born a man! I would not dither like Éomer and Théodred. I would ride out regardless, and let Wormtongue exile me.”
To Éowyn’s irritation, the man was unmoved by her tirade. He simply raised an eyebrow. “‘Wormtongue’?”
Éowyn coloured. “‘Tis what we call Gríma, for he speaks fair words with forked tongue.”
To Éowyn’s surprise, Faramir smiled briefly. “An apt name indeed, then.” The smile fled. “Why does the King favour him?”
“Because there is no one else. We Rohirrim are not like the ever-so-superior people of Númenor such as yourself, with learned men—we must take whoever we can get, in this lesser land.”
Faramir coloured. “I did not mean to—” He turned away towards his horse. “The people of Númenor dwell in Middle Earth because we are flawed—my ancestors escaped the destruction of the Isle of Númenor—caused by the pride and arrogance of our people—”
Éowyn was momentarily disconcerted, but rallied: something in her still wanted to provoke him. “A flaw you share?”
Faramir sighed and did not meet her eyes, but scratched behind his horse’s ears instead. “You sound like my father. If I have such a flaw, ‘tis from him—my mother was a kind woman, so they say—I have only the vaguest memory of her, but there is something about you … you remind me of her—”
Éowyn felt a sudden prickle of surprise.“I told you earlier; I am ungentle. Mistake me not.”
“Indeed. We are all ungentle in these times, as we must be.” Faramir turned to her and extended an arm. “I would talk to your brother, before I leave. Would you help me find him?”
“I am no milksop. I have my own strength.” Éowyn scowled at him.
“Betimes it is good to have the company of another, even if one does not need it. It strikes me—” Faramir looked away at the thatched roofs of the houses of Edoras, and the smoke curling from chimneys “—forgive my impertinence, my Lady—it strikes me that your position is lonely. I know how that is.”
Éowyn was suddenly cut to the core. “How can you presume thus? I say again, you cannot know what it is to be me!”
“Ah, but I know my own situation,” said Faramir, calmly, extending his arm again. “No doubt my father will say that my brother would have obtained help where I cannot. He regrets sending my brother away. Given that I, too, wish the Steward had sent me in Boromir’s stead, I cannot say he is wrong.”
Éowyn took his arm, annoyed that she had been made to feel like a child. “Rohan cannot spare Riders at this time.”
Faramir glanced down at her. “I know. So I told the Steward, but he said that Boromir would not have disobeyed his command, and so here I am.”
“I do not think it would have made a difference if it was your brother—” Éowyn noted: suddenly she wanted to make him feel better, for reasons that were entirely unclear to her.
They turned and discovered that they had an audience of curious villagers of Edoras including several of her brother’s éored.
“He seeks to speak to my brother,” said Éowyn, in her own language.
Éothain raised an eyebrow. “Methinks he would liefer speak to you? What was he whispering to you? Your brother is at the stables.”
“Éothain says Éomer is at the stables,” Éowyn translated for Faramir, declining to translate the whole.
Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Faramir regretted giving in to his father’s request to attend Rohan. He was glad he had made his men wait outside Edoras. He was not insensible to the fact that they would have preferred his brother, and that his presence was an annoying imposition, but he preferred not to have an audience. The sooner he could warn Éomer, and get away, the better.
The Lady Éowyn glanced at him. “What do people of Gondor think on women who fight?”
Faramir considered his reply carefully. “It is not something of our people. I do not mind that you fight—nay, I think it admirable that you desire to protect your people—but I do not think we would allow one of our own women to fight. Had I a sister, I would be reluctant to let her fight.”
“I have as much right as you to die for my people,” Éowyn snapped, her eyes like daggers.
Faramir stopped, suddenly stricken: he felt as if her gaze had pierced his heart. “Death, my Lady? ‘Tis always a risk, of course, in battle—but—you seek death?”
“What else is there for me?” said Éowyn. “I can think of naught else—”
Faramir’s heart was wrung with pity, and something else unfamiliar. “What of your brother? I know how much it would grieve my own brother were I slain?” He paused. “Please pardon me for speaking in a forthright manner—it would seem to me a pity if one so fair and brave as yourself died untimely.”
“At least I would be remembered with glory. ‘Tis better than rotting here.” Éowyn spoke very softly. Then she turned to him, her sea-blue eyes wide, her unbound hair a river of gold. Faramir thought he might drown in her depths. “You said you needed Riders—take me with you. Please. Take me from this place.”
Faramir was unable to reply for a moment. Eventually he said, “I am sorry, my Lady, but I cannot. I doubt not your courage, nor your skill—I see the way you bear that sword—but we sought four and twenty riders, not one, and your people would not forgive me. They might think that I abducted you.”
A single tear ran down Éowyn’s cheek, but she kept herself upright and stiff, a white flower encased in February frost. “You said you understood me? I think you do not.”
Faramir said in a very low voice, “I do understand, but this is not the way to achieve honour. I too seek honour, of a sort, but I fear I fail to grasp it.”
Éowyn looked at him sidelong. “By making this ride, did you seek death?” He was struck by the lack of judgement in her look.
“Nay! I sought to make the Lord Steward think more kindly of me. Whether I live or die matters not, except that ‘twould upset my brother if I died.” Faramir’s voice cracked a little. “Would that I had been born in a different Age—”
“But the Steward is your father? Would it not upset him?” Éowyn wiped the tear away with a white sleeve and stared at Faramir.
Faramir attempted a smile, but he suspected it came out crookedly. He had not intended to talk about this, particularly not to a beautiful woman whom he barely knew. “Let us keep walking.”
They walked to the Royal Stables in silence. Third Marshal Éomer was talking to a man outside the stables, but they both stopped and stared as Faramir approached, and Éomer’s eyes narrowed. “Éowyn, what are you doing?”
“This man of Gondor needed to hear some home truths,” Éowyn confessed, letting go of Faramir’s arm swiftly. “I spoke to him.”
Éomer winced and met Faramir’s eyes. “O no, sister!”
“I survived. I have suffered much worse. Do not fear.” Faramir beckoned Éomer closer, and, as he had with Éomer’s sister, whispered in the man’s ear. “I have come to say privately—that man, Gríma son of Gálmód, hides secrets behind the closed doors of his mind. Moreover—the King’s mind is clouded not only by Gríma’s words, but I cannot say by whom.”
Éomer’s eyes widened and he made a sign with his hands. “Do you practice dwimmor?”
Faramir shook his head. “Nay. ‘Tis something of the blood of Númenor. I sense at times when someone is telling the truth or not, among other things.”
Éowyn stepped away and stared at him. Faramir hastened to reassure her. “You are honest, my Lady. Fear not!”
Éomer burst out laughing. “My sister is honest almost to a fault.”
“Entirely honest, if our recent conversation is anything to go by.” Faramir lowered his voice. “Unlike this advisor.”
“I know not what I can do. I must obey my King and liege,” said Éomer, in worried low tones.
Faramir gave him a shallow bow. “Likewise, my Lord, I obey the command of the Steward, whether I agree with him or no.” He suspected his father had seen something, but when pressed, his father had refused to confirm or deny it.
“I guessed as much.” Éomer paused and his brow creased. “Your father’s mind—it is not clouded like the King’s?”
Faramir shook his head. “Nay, he is as sharp as a knife, Lord Éomer. He can bend his will far, being of the blood of Westernesse.”
“That is reassuring.” Éomer sighed. “Do you know aught of the Orcs who overrun our lands?”
“Some are from the land of he who must not be named,” said Faramir. “Others—we slew a few on the way here—large, almost mannish, and marked with a white hand? I have not seen that livery before?”
“Saruman,” sighed Éomer. “Théoden King thinks we are safe from him.”
“If that is what he thinks, the converse is almost certainly true,” said Faramir.
“Indeed.” Éomer gave him a considering look. “And what now for you?”
“I go back to Ithilien and ask for intelligence on the Haradrim. I have been told they will pass through our lands—we will ambush them and make them pay dearly—” Faramir clenched his jaw.
Éowyn drew in a hissing breath.
Faramir looked at her, surprised. “You do not approve of this plan?”
Éowyn cast her eyes down. “Forgive me my words at our first meeting. I see they were misguided.”
“Your words are already forgotten,” said Faramir, gently: he sensed she had vented frustration upon him because she had no other person to whom she could speak honestly. “Farewell, fair Lady.” He bowed to Éomer. “Farewell, Third Marshal.”
He rode a league to where his men were.“No joy,” he said to them. “As predicted.”
“Aye,” said Mablung. “Let us go back to planning our ambush.”
They drew diagrams of the cutting on the earth, and planned how they would get men there by stealth, when Faramir heard a whistle from one of the sentries: something strange approached.
“Not an Orc,” said Anborn. “What could it be?”
“We shall catch it like a coney in a trap,” said Faramir.
Chapter 5
Chapter Text
Éowyn had thought she was stealthy, but she had learned that she was far from it, and that these men of Gondor were like wildcats in the night. She was surrounded by four of them, bows drawn.
She swung down from Windfola, and unsheathed her sword, and got into a fighting stance. “I am armed, you realise.”
One of the men—the tallest—stepped forward with an exclamation, and unsheathed his own sword: it glinted orange in the dusk light. It was longer than a sword of Rohan, and broader. “Put away your sword.”
Instead, Éowyn swung at him: she had something to prove to these men. He sought to catch her blade, and she danced back and caught his instead. He called something out in a different tongue to the other men, and they stepped away, and slung their bows at their back.
Éowyn had scarcely been tested thus, not even in fights with her brother—but this man was taller and stronger. Eventually he said, “Yield.”
They were standing facing each other, almost like they were dancing. She could smell the cologne he wore. All Éowyn had to do was lean forward and she could kiss him. She dispelled that thought—where had it come from?—and put her chin up. “I am Dernhelm. A Rider of Rohan. I heard the Lord of Gondor’s plea and I came to aid you.”
Faramir sheathed his sword, and pulled down the covering over his face. “My Lady Éowyn. This is foolish indeed.”
“You cannot say I am unable to fight?” Éowyn smiled happily at Faramir as she sheathed her own sword: she was pleased to have proven to him that she was not incapable. “I tested you a little?”
Faramir’s eyes were furious. He reached out to her, but stopped short of touching her. “I might have hurt you.”
The other men also took off their face coverings—they all looked the same in the dusk—dark-haired, grey-eyed, tall and serious, and one of them said something in that other tongue again. Faramir made an annoyed noise and replied. They herded her over to a campsite.
“What language is that?” said Éowyn.
“Ranger dialect of Sindarin,” said one of the other men, and then they continued their discussion.
“Well. We are agreed: we cannot take you back tonight. The sun sets early in this season.” Faramir looked at her. “You shall take my tent. I will sleep in the open.”
Éowyn gritted her teeth. “I shall sleep in the open, I am the one who has caused this problem. I will not melt. I am not soft.”
“We are not arguing on this. There are frosts at night. I would not have it thought that we lack courtesy to a Lady.” Faramir’s expression was difficult to see in the dusk. “How I am going to explain this to your Uncle, your cousin and your brother, I know not. I only hope they do not suspect me of impropriety or seduction.”
“I am more likely to suffer impropriety in my own halls than at the hands of your men—” Éowyn was shocked when Faramir came closer.
“What mean you?” he said, harshly, the planes of his face outlined by the setting sun. “Who has wronged you?”
Éowyn looked up at him. “No one … yet … but Wormtongue—he haunts my steps and watches me constantly—he stands closer than I would like, and finds excuses to touch me—I know he would, if he could—” She broke off and choked.
“Faugh!” Faramir shook his head. “Much becomes clear, regarding your flight—”
“Éomer and Théodred protect me,” said Éowyn, with difficulty. “But if they die—”
“What if I threaten this man Gríma? That will not work, if I am back in Ithilien—” Faramir strode around. “I could tell him that I can bend my mind in his direction, and I will know if he behaves badly towards you? I could threaten to hunt him down and kill him? I shall give him my father’s look—that is enough to turn anyone’s blood to ice—”
“‘Tis tomorrow’s problem,” said one of the other men. “Now we must sleep, Captain.”
“Truly, Damrod,” said Faramir.
The men disappeared into their tents: two to each of the three tents. Two others disappeared, making a strange whistling sound as they did so, like piping birds.
“Why do you care so much?” whispered Éowyn, once the men were settled.
“You sound like my father again. I would not see you ill-used, my Lady, not if ‘twere in my power to stop it.” Faramir leaned down, and to Éowyn’s utter shock, kissed her on the forehead. “Good night.”
He turned without another word, and began to arrange his bedding a distance away from her tent.
Éowyn stared after his shadowy form, her mind in turmoil. Then she went into the tent and lay down, but she could not sleep. The bedding also smelled like Faramir. Outside, she heard a rustle as Faramir turned over. And then again. And again.
“Faramir?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for causing you trouble.”
She heard him sigh. “Do not worry. Sleep. Mablung and Anborn keep watch.”
They woke with the grey dawn, the green grass of Rohan gently frosted. Faramir shared some dried fruit and dried meat with Éowyn and said, curtly, as if he had never kissed her forehead last night, “Today, I take you back.”
Éowyn put her head down. “Yes, Lord.”
“Get up on my horse,” said Faramir.
“I shall ride Windfola.” Éowyn put up her chin.
“I have no desire for you to ride off on Windfola and for us to have to chase you down. We have wasted enough time as it is. Damrod shall ride Windfola, and you shall ride on my horse. With me.”
Éowyn glared at Faramir, and Faramir glared back at her. Eventually, she got up on the horse, and Faramir got up behind her. It was discomforting to have to sit this close to him, enclosed by his arms, but she was shocked to realise that she also liked it.
Meanwhile, Damrod mounted Windfola, who was a little restive, and anxious at being ridden by a stranger. “Nice horse, my Lady.”
Éowyn stared back at him. “Well, of course.”
Chapter 6
Chapter Text
Éomer was ready to tear his hair out. At some point in the night, his sister had disappeared, taking her horse Windfola with her. They had turned Meduseld and Edoras upside down looking for her.
Éothain looked thoughtful. “It’s that man.”
“What man?” Éomer stared at his kinsman.
“The Gondor man. Should have seen the two of them arguing, down in front of the Inn, where he was watering his horse! But I think they’d as lief as being doing other things—”
Éomer made a face. “Lord Faramir? And … my sister? Arguing? She did say she confronted him.”
“She was giving him a piece of her mind—just like the old Éowyn, before, you know…” Éothain waved his hand vaguely in the air.
“Before Gríma—?” murmured Éomer.
“Exactly,” said Éothain. “She had colour in her cheeks! Mind, I deem that was because he kept calling her fair—and he did not buck or shy at any of her spurs in his side—it was quite funny.”
Éomer’s eyes widened. “What?”
“She was insisting to him that women were good at fighting. He wasn’t dismayed—in fact, he offered his arm to her! I thought she was about to chop it off, but then she took his arm and they went up the hill.” Éothain guffawed.
“This is not amusing,” said Éomer, darkly.
Théodred came up, his slightly greying hair askew. “Do we know where she is yet?”
“Éothain has a theory that she’s run off to the Lord Faramir to prove that she can fight,” sighed Éomer. “Apparently they were arguing about this outside the Inn in Edoras.”
To Éomer’s shock, Théodred burst out laughing. “I did say to you and Boromir, some months back—they’ll give each other icy stares—which they’ve already done—they’ll try and kill each other, and then they’ll swyve each other.”
“By Eorl, I don’t think they’d do that last part? He seemed almost too polite. Did you smell that perfume he wore? I would have thought he was like … “ Éothain broke off and glanced at Théodred “… except he kept calling her fair, and then he whispered in her ear.”
“I expect he is polite! I am not so sure about her.” Éomer pulled his hair again. He was well-aware that his sister was prone to passionate, headstrong behaviour. She had their father Eomund’s temperament.
One of the guards from Meduseld came down. “Two horses approaching, Lord Éomer. One black or brown, one grey.”
“Windfola is grey and that Gondor horse was dark brown,” said Éomer, glumly. “O well, at least he’s brought her back?”
They went down and stood by the gates. Théodred kept chuckling at intervals, until Éomer hit him in the arm, hard.
As the two riders approached, Éomer saw that two people on the brown horse, and another person on the second horse. He wondered what had occurred. Eventually, the riders halted at the gate. Windfola’s rider turned out to be another dark-haired grey-eyed man. Faramir and a mail-clad woebegone Éowyn were on the other horse.
Faramir swung down and then offered his arm to Éowyn. Éowyn glared at Faramir, said something sharp, and then dismounted from the other side of the horse. The other dark-haired man appeared to be hiding a smile behind his hand.
Éomer stepped forward and folded his arms. “Sister! What is the meaning of this?”
“The Lord Faramir said Gondor sought Riders.” Éowyn looked entirely unapologetic.
“We did not want a sole Rider, particularly not one who is also the niece of the King of Rohan,” said Faramir decidedly, his dark brows drawn down, as he folded his arms.
Éowyn turned to him. “You cannot say I cannot fight!”
Faramir smiled grimly. “Indeed. As I have said before—‘tis not skill you lack.”
“It is that I am a woman! I hate this! I would lief as not be a woman!”
“If your brother Éomer had ridden out in the night to join me, I would have sent him home, just as I have sent you home,” said Faramir, meeting Éomer’s eyes briefly, and giving him a shallow bow. “You are needed by your people, my Lady.”
Gríma Wormtongue spoke suddenly from behind Éomer. “The Lady Éowyn has been found, after being abducted by these men of Gondor! One cannot trust them!”
Faramir stepped forward, his face white and strained, his eyes glinting in the morning light. “Do not say such a thing. I am the son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and the blood of Westernesse runs almost true in my veins—” He stepped forward, his grey-eyed gaze intense, and his fists clenched. “If I sense or hear that you have put a finger on the Lady Éowyn, I will hunt you down and kill you, Gríma Wormtongue. No matter how long it takes me, or if I have to hunt you to the ends of the Earth. Do you hear me? Do not touch her.”
Éomer flinched, but he also looked at Faramir with new respect.
Gríma cringed. “He seeks this woman for himself, Prince Théodred, Marshal Éomer. Do you hear this?”
Faramir’s face twisted. “I seek to possess no woman. And, as a High Lord of Gondor, I am constrained in my choices of whom I may marry.” Faramir looked at Éowyn briefly, and something flickered across his face before Éomer could identify it. “I shall explain myself before the King, and then I shall leave again, my Lady.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Éowyn, dully.
The two Gondor men engaged in a soft conversation—Éomer could not understand what they said—and then Faramir offered his arm to Éowyn. She glared at his arm, and then to Éomer’s surprise, took it anyway.
“What are you going to do with only one horse?” said Théodred.
“We shall ride back together,” said Faramir. “Damrod and I have had to share a tent before: sharing a horse is nothing.”
The solemn man saluted. “Yes, Captain.”
“We can give you one of ours for the ride back,” said Théodred.
“Most generous,” said Faramir.
“I’m thinking of the horse,” admitted Théodred. “Carrying two fully grown men with full weaponry—”
To Éomer’s surprise, Faramir smiled. “Ah. That is kind of you, Second Marshal. I was also concerned.”
“So how did you find her?” Éomer asked Faramir, on the way up the hill.
“She rode towards our camp and we surrounded her.”
Éowyn said shortly, “I fought.”
“You did,” said Faramir, giving her a long, opaque look.
“But where did you sleep?” said Éomer, and Théodred and Gríma looked back at them to hear the answer.
Éowyn scowled. “He slept in the open, while I slept in his tent. ‘Twould have been better for me to sleep in the open. Our wool cloaks protect us from the rain and dew, he was covered in frost—”
Faramir sighed, as if he had heard this several times before.
Chapter 7
Chapter Text
Théodred took Faramir down to the stables to give him a horse. “You can let him go if you wish, or keep him. We gave one to your brother.”
Faramir’s face suddenly lit up, and Théodred was reminded with a pang of Boromir. “I am glad to know it, Lord Théodred. Did he look well, when you saw him?”
“He looked well,” said Théodred. “But that was some months ago now, and we have not heard from him since? Have you?”
Faramir shook his head and his face shadowed. “My father should have sent me. But—what is done cannot be undone, Second Marshal—”
There was a scrabbling at the stable window, and Théodred went to it. He unlatched the wooden fastenings and found his cousin Éowyn, her golden hair askew. “What are you doing? Have you not caused enough problems?”
Éowyn glared at him. “I need to speak to him.” She pointed at Faramir.
“But how did you get out? I thought Éomer ensured you were contained.”
“I crept out through the larder window,” confessed Éowyn.
To Théodred’s surprise, Faramir laughed softly. “And what would you have to say to me that would require such effort, my Lady?”
“I would speak to you privately.”
“There is an empty stable next door,” said Théodred, his curiosity well and truly piqued.
Faramir looked somewhat doubtful. “Well. I must go soon. But speak, then.”
They went to the empty stable next door, and Théodred put his ear to the wooden wall unashamedly.
“What did you mean, when you said that you were constrained in your choices of whom you could marry?” Éowyn asked.
Théodred heard Faramir sigh deeply. “My father will make me marry another Númenórean, if I marry at all. My brother is unmarried, and I think he will remain so—”
After a long silence, Éowyn said, “Is that your preference, to marry a woman of the same blood?”
“My preferences do not matter.”
“But you do not believe you must marry a Númenórean?” insisted Éowyn.
“I would lief as not.” Faramir drew a deep breath. “If there is a woman I would wish to marry, I cannot ask for her hand. I cannot say more—”
“At least you could show her some sign?”
“My Lady—I cannot—Éowyn—”
There was a noise of fabric rustling, and then a sob. After some time, Théodred became concerned, and wondered if Éowyn had stabbed Faramir, although surely the man would make more noise than a sob? He emerged, looked over the half-stable door, and cleared his throat.
The couple let go of each other. To Théodred’s immense disappointment, the scene before him lacked drama—they had only been embracing. Éowyn’s eyes were red. “Don’t tell Éomer!”
“I will not, unless it becomes necessary,” Théodred agreed. “What did you do last night?”
The couple stared at him, their faces painted with shock. “Nothing, other than sleep badly,” Faramir said.
“I should have slept outside,” said Éowyn, and Faramir scowled.
Théodred shook his head. “Well, I will go back into the other stable for a moment, so you can do something more than bicker.”
He went back into the other stable and patted the horse he was going to give Faramir, and made sure its gear was in order. Then he checked on the couple, and was pleased to see that they were kissing. He cleared his throat again, and they pulled apart again.
“Fare thee well,” said Faramir, bowing. “Thou art the only fair, and I will hold thee in my heart always, Éowyn.”
Éowyn had tears in her eyes. “Can we not elope?”
“That might cause a diplomatic incident for both our realms,” noted Théodred.
“Boromir is unlikely to wed, otherwise I might have more freedom,” said Faramir. Then he led the horse out of the stable, bowed to Théodred, and led the horse down the hill.
After they watched Faramir leave, Éowyn’s expression returned to its usual hardness. Théodred said, “I liked it when you smiled?”
“See what happens when I let myself hope? There is no hope,” said Éowyn.
Éomer was coming out of Meduseld, but he halted by the door guards and said, “No, you tried to escape again, Éowyn? Why?”
Éowyn turned an icy gaze on him. “I thanked the man of Gondor for treating me well and scolded him again for sleeping him outdoors.”
Éomer looked at her more closely. “Have you been crying, sister? Surely not? You never cry.”
“I have only my duty left,” said Éowyn, sternly. “Nothing but duty, as neither you nor the man from Gondor will let me fight.” She walked off, her back straight.
Éomer grimaced. “What is going on?”
Théodred sighed. “Nothing at all, alas. All remains much as it was before, despite that entertaining interlude.”
“Is it true? Can Faramir control Wormtongue?” Éomer looked hopeful.
Théodred crossed his arms. “Boromir said Faramir can foretell what will come to pass on rare occasions, and, if he wants, knows aught of what some people think. But I do not believe he can control Wormtongue. He just said that to scare the Worm, I deem. I hope it works?”
Éomer said faintly, “Mayhap that accounts for the haunted look he has? I am glad that my sister has no interest in Faramir, in any case.”
Théodred smiled. “Well. Who knows how events will unfurl? I still think there is promise for the two of them.”
Chapter 8
Chapter Text
The more time wore on, the more Éowyn felt like she was dying inside, slowly calcifying to rock. King Théoden continued to fall into dotage, and followed Gríma’s suggestions mindlessly. Gríma was much more careful in how he approached her, but she knew he watched her still, and desired her. The brief moment when Faramir had visited—where she had felt alive again for a moment—seemed to her to be a dream with an unpleasant ending. It was just her luck to lose the only man who had ever stirred her heart, to lose a chance of happiness. No one had heard anything of him since. Éowyn feared he was dead. If he was, there was no reason to keep her promise not to seek death herself.
Finally, the King let Théodred go to the Fords of Isen. Théodred kissed Éowyn on the forehead before he went. “Keep your hope up, little cousin. All will be well.”
Théodred was wrong: he was slain. Éowyn had not prepared for this. She had worried about her brother, her Uncle, Faramir—but she had thought her kind, bluff older cousin was invincible. When they brought his body back, she knelt by it for a long time, silent.
Éomer put his hand on her shoulder. “He would not want to see you thus. He liked it when you laughed.”
“I shall laugh no more,” said Éowyn.
Meanwhile, there were tidings that the horn of Boromir had been heard near the border of Rohan. Éomer heard news of a band of Orcs approaching from the Emyn Muil, and begged the King to let him leave.
“I have lost my son; I will not lose my sister-son too,” said Théoden King.
The next morning when Éowyn arose, Éomer was not there. It transpired that he and his éored had left in the night to pursue the Orcs. Gríma Wormtongue was furious, and persuaded the King that Éomer was a traitor. Éowyn attempted to speak in favour of her brother, but to no avail. Then she reflected that the rules for Éomer were clearly different to those which applied to her: he was allowed to ride off and fight. Bitter darkness gnawed at her.
When Éomer returned, he threatened to kill Gríma, and he was imprisoned. Éowyn had thought no greater depths could be reached, but she realised at that moment that she was without protection: her brother imprisoned, Théodred dead, and the doubtful protection of Faramir—if it had ever been real at all—was far away.
Then the Wizard came to Meduseld, Gríma fled, Éomer was released, and Théoden was renewed. For the first time, Éowyn felt hope.
Then she learned that her role was organise the women and children while the men fought, and bitterness ate at her heart again. Aragorn was pleasant to her—and Éowyn thought that if she had not met Faramir, her heart might have been in danger—but Faramir had been a kinder, softer version of Aragorn; more human. There was something stern and forbidding about Aragorn.
When they heard forces were massing and attacking Minas Tirith, it was time, she decided, for Dernhelm to ride again. Faramir could not blame her, if he still lived. There was nothing left: no hope in the darkness. And at least she might help his people.
Chapter 9
Chapter Text
Faramir felt spent, like a bucket with no water left, but still he tried to pour out the drops that remained on the fires which blazed all about. The death of his brother, and the revelations of the Halflings, had shaken him to his core. He still believed, whatever his father said, that he had done the right thing. However, the one person who had loved him unconditionally was gone, and he did not know if the other person whom he thought might be able to love him still lived. He had heard Rohan had been overrun by Sauron and Saruman both. He tried to sense Éowyn—he thought she still lived—but in the darkness of the night, he despaired and wondered if he was deceiving himself.
Then his father sent him away, unblessed, saying that he wished Boromir had lived and Faramir had died. Hope at last fled, but Faramir still kept fighting—not for himself, nor for his father, who did not love him—but for his people. He recalled Éowyn saying that at least one could die with glory. He thought he knew what she meant. And then—he was hit in the arm by a poison dart, and he swooned. His final thought was that at last, it was all over.
But it was not over after all: he walked in dreams of darkness, trapped. He was surrounded by lava, and Orcs and beasts with flaming whips lashed him, saying that his father was right: he was worthless. He searched and searched for a way out, but the more he searched, the more he was trapped. He thought he saw Éowyn, and called out to her, but she was drowning in dark waters, and could not see him.
And then, he felt the blessed waft of fresh air, and a voice called him, “Faramir, Faramir.” He looked and looked for who was calling him, but he could not find him.
“Who is it?” Faramir called.
“It is I, your king,” said the voice.
“But Gondor has no king?”
“I have returned.” A waft of cool scented air, like Ithilien in the spring time, blew past them, and then Faramir saw a regal dark-haired man, of kingly bearing, the white crown of Elendil on his brow, clad in full robes. “My lord the king?”
“I have found you. Come back to the land of the living.”
Then Faramir opened his eyes and found he was lying in a bed, and a man was bending over him, his face lined with strain, wearing a weather-stained cloak and a brooch at the collar. He knew, however, that this was the same man as he’d seen with a crown in his dream, and he said. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”
“Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!” said the king. “You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”
“I will, lord,” said Faramir. “For who would lie idle while the king has returned?”
Faramir then saw that Mithrandir and his uncle Imrahil were there too. In the corner, Captain Beregond of the city guard, and a boy who looked like Beregond were standing weeping, yet smiling.
“Farewell then, for a while!” said the man. “I must go to others that need me.” And then he left, as if Faramir had dreamed him, but Mithrandir and Imrahil went too.
Beregond and his son approached, and Beregond wept unashamedly. “My Lord, my Lord, we thought you were dead, and we all wept.”
“I cannot remember anything past the moment when a Haradric dart hit me,” said Faramir, searching his memory, “although to be honest, I am not sure what was a dark dream and what was real. How goes the city? It stands still? My people are safe?”
“The city has been damaged, but it stands,” said Beregond. “Some have died, but less than there could have been. And the Witch King of Angmar, who was undertaking the siege, has died, at the hand of a woman.”
Faramir felt a sudden chill. “Not a woman of Rohan?”
“Yes, how did you know?” chirped Beregond’s son. “She lies in this house too—the king will heal her too—”
Faramir tried to raise himself. “Éowyn—!” Then he fell back.
“Rest, my Lord,” said Beregond. “The king has returned.”
Chapter 10
Chapter Text
Éowyn walked in writhing darkness, and the wraiths and dwimmorlaik around her called in mocking tones that Éomer was dead, along with Théoden, Théodred and Faramir. She thought she saw Faramir, trapped in a pillar of flame but he could not see her.
The nightmare seemed to go on forever, but she heard someone call her. She did not recognise the voice at first, but as she neared the source of the voice, she realised it was her brother.
She opened her eyes, and saw that Éomer was leaning over her, weeping. “Éowyn, Éowyn!”
“Éomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?”
Éomer flinched. “Not long, my sister. But think no more on it!” This was so typical of her brother that Éowyn was tempted to sigh. He never liked to dwell on misfortune or illness.
“I am strangely weary,” she said instead. “I must rest a little—”
Éomer confirmed that Théoden King, Lord of the Mark, had died, as she dimly recalled, but that he had died with honour. Éowyn spared a moment to wish that she, too, had died with honour: but she thought it important to remind Éomer of the great deeds of Meriadoc the Halfling.
Then she settled back in her bed and contemplated how she could go back to battle.
Once she was able, she rose and went to see the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Predictably, he did not want to let her ride out either, and therefore she demanded to see the person who was in charge. The Warden shrugged. “The Steward is in this House, and he was lately wounded in the same way as you. You may speak to him if you wish?”
Éowyn steeled herself: she did not expect any meeting with Faramir’s father to be a pleasant one. She went outside to the Gardens where she had been directed, and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing at the wall, looking down. Her first thought was that Faramir’s father looked identical to him from the back.
And then the man turned and she gaped, blinking through the murk of the Enemy, wondering if her eyes deceived her. “Faramir?”
Faramir smiled, in a way she had never seen before: unalloyed joy shone in his eyes. “Éowyn! I looked in on you, but you slept—”
“But you were dead?” said Éowyn. “The voices told me you were dead? I saw you there, in that dark place?”
Faramir shook his head. “I believe I was very near to death. I have been told my father is dead—I am the last of my house left.”
Éowyn still could not give into hope. “If I ask you whether I might fight, what will you say?”
Faramir walked over to her. “I say the same as I said before, almost a year ago. It would be a pity if one so fair wasted her life thus—”
Éowyn’s breath caught. “You—you still—?”
Faramir smiled. “Aye. I did tell thee: I will hold thee in my heart always, Éowyn.”
“But—there is no hope for us—” said Éowyn, brokenly. “Please—let me fight?”
Faramir took her hands. “My father is dead, and my brother is dead. The king is returned. I may now wed whomever I choose. And of all the women on Middle Earth—there is only one I would ask—?”
Éowyn’s eyes welled with tears. “I cannot believe it. I cannot dare hope. The world is about to end—there is no point.”
Faramir put his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead. “Éowyn, Éowyn, even the wise cannot see all ends. And if the world is to end, I would rather die with thee—”
Éowyn looked up at him. “Truly?”
“Truly,” said Faramir, and kissed her, not caring who saw them.
Chapter 11
Chapter Text
When Éomer got to the Houses, the women looked at him strangely when he asked where his sister was. But he was determined to say farewell before he went to the Black Gate. Blessedly, Éowyn had not asked him today whether she could ride with him.
“She is with the Steward, I deem,” said the garrulous old woman, Ioreth. “Let me show you where they are in the Garden.”
They rounded the corner and then Éomer’s mouth dropped open. His sister and Faramir were standing in the Garden, at the edge of the wall, kissing, in full view of everyone.
Ioreth looked interested. “Well, goodness me, look at that. I’ll have to tell the Warden: he will be pleased. He was worried that she was still determined to seek death.”
Éomer strode up. “Éowyn!”
The couple stopped and turned to him, but Faramir’s arm was still around Éowyn. They both looked pale and thin, but happier than he’d ever seen either of them before.
“Éomer!” said his sister. “Faramir’s alive! And—he has asked me to marry him.”
Éomer blinked. “Hold. What did you say?” He looked at Faramir. “I thought you could not marry a woman outside your own? Isn’t that what you said outside Edoras?”
“My father and brother are dead. While it brings me much grief, it means I may keep my own counsel,” said Faramir solemnly. “If I want to marry your sister, I shall.”
“She is tempestuous,” warned Éomer, ignoring Éowyn’s dagger gaze. “Are you sure about this, my Lord?”
“I have been sure of it for almost a year,” said Faramir. “I did not dare hope it was possible. It may still not be possible, if he who cannot be named defeats us.”
Éomer put his fingers to the bridge of his nose: he felt a headache coming on. “How long has this been going on?”
“Nothing has been going on,” sighed Éowyn. “Nothing, I tell you! Why do you think I was so miserable? If anything had been going on, I would have been a good deal happier, my brother.”
Éomer could not be bothered arguing further with them: at this point, he was more concerned about surviving the coming battle with Sauron. He shelved his sister’s marital plans away for further consideration, if any of them survived. “I am off to the Black Gate.”
Faramir put his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “Go well, brother.”
Éomer was suddenly moved to ask, “Do you feel anything, about what our chances are?”
Faramir looked non-committal. “Sometimes I feel that we will be flooded by darkness inescapable, or a giant wave will swamp us and drown us, as it sank Númenor. But that may be the after-effects of the Black Breath? At other times, I feel there is a glimmer of hope in the darkness. I would not trust any of my instincts in this regard, not at this time—I should think Aragorn, Mithrandir or one of the Elves would have a better sense.”
“Gandalf thinks we have a chance,” said Éomer.
Faramir nodded. “A glimmer of hope in the darkness, then. I hope that you achieve all you set out to do, and that you come through unscathed. Too many have died.”
“You do realise he’s a miserable sod?” Éomer warned his sister.
His sister laughed and laughed. “Yea, I do,” she said, eventually. Then she threw her arms around him. “Go well, brother. I love you, and I will see you when you return.”
As Éomer exited the Gardens, shaking his head, he came upon Master Meriadoc, smoking a pipe and sitting on a step. He was reminded sharply of the time he had first seen Meriadoc and Peregrin, sitting on stone blocks outside Isengard.
“Hullo Éomer,” said Meriadoc. “Isn’t it lovely about Éowyn and Faramir? A little spot of brightness in all this gloom. I have to say—I was a little doubtful when Faramir started asking me questions about Éowyn, but once I saw them together, all doubts flew away.” He blew some smoke rings in the air to demonstrate, and they disappeared into the brown gloaming.
“I’m a little taken aback,” Éomer confessed, “and unsure that either realises what they are getting into.”
“I’m sure that goes for any couple,” said Meriadoc, amiably. “They’ll work it out.”
“But you are not wed?” said Éomer.
“No, I’m far too young for that! If Sam ever comes back, poor fellow, we’ll encourage him to try it first. He’s been pining after Rosie Cotton for years.” Meriadoc eyed Éomer seriously. “This is a reason for you to try your best, so we can get Sam back for Rosie.”
Éomer laughed. “As if the fate of the free world were not enough. Farewell, Master Meriadoc, and I hope I shall see you again before too long.”
“I hope so too,” said Meriadoc, nodding.
