Éowyn paused in the act of tying a bow about the package laid upon her bed, unloosed its shining white ribbon and reached into the silver silk, quite unable to resist the urge to unfurl the fabric once last time.

The thick volume's soft tan leather was warm beneath her fingertips, its gold lettering glinting elegantly in the light. A substantial tome for a substantial subject. The moment, months before, that Faramir's favourite bookseller in the fourth had shyly offered up that he had a source in Noramin and surely the Steward would adore the first compendium of Haradi lore and myth to be penned at the behest of Emperor Goran-she knew she must take a chance and place an order. The trader's camel train, sea voyage and wagons from Harlond had taken near six weeks. All that time, barely able to contain her excitement, she had listened to him speak offhandedly of its existence. That it was due to be released but the booksellers did not expect shipments until after the holiday.

What a coup! It was the perfect Mettarë gift and she would have the delight of seeing him rapt and amazed, lost in its detail and elegant illuminated plates.

Her excitement and impatience for the thrill of seeing the surprise on her husband's face had climbed so high there was a very real threat of impulsively showing the treasure off in a moment of sudden weakness. Hence the need to wrap it right away. Safely covered, ensconced by the mantlepiece in their sitting room, it would be safe for the next few weeks. Faramir, a man blessed with a sense of patience suited to a hunting hound, would keep an eye on it and do the waiting for them both.

Quickly she gathered up the silk and tied the ribbon tight, laid the book aside and picked up the present for her brother. The new ale horn, carved from an oliphant tusk and bound in silver was larger than any at Meduseld and would do Éomer's kingly capacity proper justice. She hoped it would also encourage him to join the nights of song and drink that turned the whole week of Yule at Edoras into an endless feast. She was a little torn. Yule was for family. He had assured her he would have enough to keep him busy, that as King he would not be lonely without her there to share the holiday, but she could not forget the barest twitch high on his cheek when last they parted. It would be the first season they were apart for the most important rite of the year, and though she would not miss her first Mettarë with Faramir in their new home for all the spice cake in Rohan's warm and homey halls, she felt a distinct pang of regret.

The first week of Ringarë was the time for families in the Mark to gather to make the traditional sweet and dense spice cake that was her favourite and unlike with most Yule baking, it was the men's responsibility to make it. Properly supervised of course. Theoden had always claimed the right to fold the nuts and precious clove and nutmeg into the heavy batter. Theodred as 'eldest' child-the right to make a wish over the pans for the coming year. She, the baby, got to cut the first warm and redolent slice.

Eomer always, but always, ate the batter raw.

The simple pleasure of the task made her pause and wonder anew what truly elaborate and over formal events Gondorians might have planned for the winter's dark.

A ball would be held of course. There would be trays of fussy little cakes and tiny canapes of ten ingredients piled into perfect towers just waiting to topple on the unwary guest. The court ladies would wear their ridiculous slashed and gold-laced gowns, their extravagant hairstyles set stiff with egg-whites to keep them from collapsing during the most vigorous of the stately formal dances. Bema but she was tired of the tight and restricting corsets that were the fashion. The thought of a heavy gown and formal ball was dispiriting.

It would be nothing like the first Yule she and Faramir had spent together in Edoras. This time there would be no children wound up on sugared fruits, shrieking and running through hall. No dogs darting through the whirling couples who danced under the golden roof, waiting for a moment's inattention to filch a treat from a table groaning with meats and winter mead. No piles of simple homemade gifts clustered below a potted fir gathered from Starkhorn's sleek, snowy slopes.

With a sigh of longing Éowyn tied a bright green ribbon around the curving parcel and realized she really should speak to Faramir about the plans for Emyn Arnen. Surely she could convince him to combine the best of both traditions. Make the holiday about both their peoples. They were to spend the night of Mettarë itself in Minas Tirith that much she knew. The Steward and the King were both expected to lead the observances but Faramir had assured her they would be back late in the evening and celebrate the new year's dawn in their own home.

It was startling how quickly she had come to think of Emyn Arnen in that way.

Gathering up both packages, she laid the shears and ribbon neatly on the bureau. There was much still to be done and high time she had a word with Gwinlith their cook. The first day of the new year should be a time for gifts and thanking all for their hard work. Of course they would have the White Company in and their families and the workers from the estate. Food would need to be ordered for a feast. A trip to Minas Tirith would be in order and if she hurried she could get Éomer's present into the messenger's saddle-bag before searching Nera out and Gwinlith.

As she strode quickly along the paneled hall toward the front courtyard, it dawned on Éowyn that the bright and light fair space was missing something that should be there. It felt a little spare. The iron torches were unadorned. The wall hangings with their summer blues looked a little bland and colourless. There was no touch of Yule. No scented boughs to usher the season in, or garlands or stars or clove-studded fruit to give the whole month the smell of anticipation. Mentally she began a list. Some of the delicate but pretty glass balls in Minas Tirith could be bought to hang from the torches. They would need to gather boughs of green to adorn the rooms, cumulada leaves to drape the mantlepieces and the red berries of Ithilien's glossy holly would lend some welcome colour. Perhaps after lunch she and Faramir could take a walk up the slope behind the house and start gathering what they would need. He would remember where they had seen that particularly large and heavy bush.

Ithilien's Lady was so excited to share her budding plans that by the time she reached the Prince's study that she did not knock at the closed carven door. Opened it, she strode on through, colliding solidly and abruptly with the great shining bulk of soldier who stood before the desk.

Beregond, in full armour with his helm under one arm and melting snow dripping from his cloak, grasped her arm quickly before she could fall. "My apologies, my Lady! Are you hurt?"

Éowyn shook her head, brows furrowed with concern as the Captain bent and retrieved the horn that had toppled in the melee. Blessedly it looked unhurt. And blessedly her grip had been steady on the book.

"Only my pride, " she replied, brushing wet drops from off her skirt. "Excuse me for the intrusion. I can come back." She meant to turn away but behind the heavy desk, Faramir had risen, his bright smile of surprise replaced by a startled frown. "No need, my love. Beregond has just finished giving his report."

"I hope it is good news?" Though Ithilien was safer than the year before, not all was settled, particularly in the north. Faramir himself had just led a sortie to Ephel Duath's upper vales, routing several scattered bands of half-starving Orcs. Her heart had been in her mouth the entire time that he was gone.

Beregond nodded happily. "Yes my Lady. Not Orcs this time but Men. Harrying the folk resettling. Taking livestock and grain. Though the harvest has been good not all are minded to work for their provision." He smiled shyly and turned back to his Prince, a question lit in his warm brown eyes.

Faramir smiled wryly and made a shooing gesture. "I see you are as keen to see your lady as I am mine. Go. I will not keep you a second more from Alwynne's welcome. Three days might as well be three months when one is away from a happy home."

A ruddy flush crept up the older's man's face. Beregond bowed and murmured thanks to them both and went quickly through the door. Éowyn smiled fondly at the sight of his swiftly retreating back. If she and Faramir could be half as happy as the White Company's Captain and his wife were after twenty years, three daughters and a son, she would count herself well blessed.

Faramir rose from behind his pile of jumbled papers and stretched to roll a kink out of his neck. He had been working on inventory allocations for the hours since they broke their fast. One ink stained finger pointed to a pair of chairs beside the blazing fire. "There is some mulled cider if you would like? And honeycakes. Still warm." That last brought her husband's quirky grin. He knew how much she loved all sweets. Nera, their housekeeper, had obviously brought a mid-morning snack and suddenly the sight made Éowyn realize she was famished despite her early meal.

"Thank you." she said, sitting down and placing her packages gently upon a little table.

She took two cakes when he offered the plate across. It paid, she had learned, to take her share with alacrity.

Faramir, perpetually hungry and oblivious at times, could finish an entire plate.

"Have you given any thought to plans for Mettarë?" she asked, wincing slightly as a sip of the cider burned her tongue. It was still hot but Faramir, as usual, chugged back a rather larger gulp.

"Plans?" he asked. "Well of course there is the official ball and the lantern ceremony in the Citadel. That is all we are promised to."

All? Éowyn frowned. But surely there were other events, other organizing to be done? Perhaps as a Captain and with heavy responsibility for Gondor's precarious eastern front he had not lately been involved.

She tried to explain again. "I meant our plans. I assume festivities are rather more formal in Minas Tirith than Edoras, but there are the food and lights and ceremonies we do at home as well." Mettarë was all about bringing light to a dark time of the year. There must be special lanterns to be used and polished, special cookies or cakes, star-shaped, like the ones she had seen in the bakeries.

Faramir shook his dark raven head. "No. Nothing in particular. All that is handled by the Palace staff."

Éowyn let out a steadying breath and counted silently to three. Her normally formidably bright husband was being particularly obtuse this morn. "You said that. But should we not begin planning for our own Yule? I know we spend the day before in the City but what of the evening and the morn?"

"What of it?" His cultured voice was somewhat rough, coming from around a large piece of cake.

"But what of decorating? And celebrations here? Our family's plans?" She blushed suddenly at the thought. Our family. The idea that they might become more than two sent a thrill of longing straight to her core. Next Mettarë if Yavanna saw fit to bless them, there might be three lanterns to be lit.

Faramir brushed a few stray crumbs from off his tunic. "I hadn't thought. Whatever you like is fine, my dear."

Whatever she liked? From the blank look on Faramir's face he hadn't thought of this at all. In fact it seemed he was barely paying attention, more interested in the fare than the festivities. Her temper flared. "But do you not want to share in making the spirit of the season?"

He blinked and frowned in puzzlement. "Well of course we will but upon the day itself. Mettare is quite a large event- the Citadel will be thronged-but for us afterward it will be a quiet family time."

Quiet family time? This was the first celebration in their new home! A special memory to treasure always. The start of a tradition that would continue for years to come.

Faramir, sensing something of her discomfiture, smiled quickly and tried to catch her gaze. Unfortunately, his next words unfortunately only rankled more.

"I am sure servants have it all in hand."

"Servants!?"

This was too much. She was not going to let their first Mettarë together in the house they had worked so hard to finish be just the work of servants. A tiny tendril of hurt now wound up into her breast and held tightly to the anger. "But they have done nothing here! There have been no requests from us! No boughs put up, no tree or baking that I can see." Her voice rose sharply as she catalogued the grievances. "No extra lights laid out, no gifts bought for the staff. I would ashamed to give no thought to our own celebration!"

Faramir's handsome face darkened like a thundercloud. "If you are going to raise your voice, my Lady it would be better to use it on the horses." He rose abruptly, set his napkin down on the still warm, vacated seat. High on his cheek a muscle jumped. "I did expect to hear you say you were ashamed of anything in our new home."

Bema. Her temper had got the better of her. Éowyn rose hastily, reaching out to touch his arm and apologize. "Faramir, I am sorry, I did not mean it quite like that."

"No?" His shrugged her light touch off. "Then quite how did you mean it?"

From the set of his jaw and the hurt in his clear grey eyes her words had a touched a nerve of which she was unaware. He stood stiffly, poised between the chairs and the door that had been left ajar. "Lady it seems we are used to somewhat different celebrations. My father worked. There were no 'family plans' such as you describe. Boromir and I spent the day together, riding or hunting. Enjoying each other's company with our responsibilities set aside. I am not ashamed of the more simple time we spent together."

Tears pricked suddenly behind her eyes. She had not meant she was ashamed of him. "Faramir I…."

Meaning to apologize once more, Éowyn gathered up her skirts, but belatedly remembered her errrand and the time. She reached for the forgotten package, but in the moment that it took for her to get all in hand and turn, Faramir was gone.

He had turned on his heel and left the room. Without even biding her goodbye.

Stunned, Éowyn stood forlornly and tried to understand how a simple discussion had got to this: their first, more serious fight.

Damn her quick, unruly temper, but damn him for being touchy- Faramir should have let her speak, not bolted before she had a chance to have her say-but then, with a sinking heart, she realized this had been bound to happen. He had been not quite himself for days. More than usually distracted. Leaving quills and papers all about. Missing a ride that they had planned. She had tried to be patient with the mess and sudden silences but, tired from all the work around the estate, she had been short with him in turn. Snappish and impatient.

No wonder they were both at odds.

Not for the first time, she found herself wishing her new husband would share his feelings a little more. How like a man to not say what was the problem. To bottle troubles up inside. Faramir, in particular, was far too used to keeping his own counsel and most especially when conflict was involved. He hated raised voices. With good reason, but she was not Denethor. She would not take his head off for every imagined slight-even if it might sound so at times.

(And unlike her stern, departed father-in-law, she would always apologize.)

Resolving to not let Faramir brood, especially this close to the holiday, Éowyn hurried into the hall and out the grand front doors to the curving gravel lane. He would not have forgotten about the messenger and the man was likely in the stable yard. Once outside she found winter sun bright and high in the morning sky but the air still chill. She clutched her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and rounded the side of the house, crossing the flagstones quickly before the cold seeped through her thin house slippers.

It was then that she espied a faint flickering glow: white candles, wicks trimmed short, sputtering in the little shrine they had built together.

They had not been lit when she rode Windfola earlier that morn.

Oh gods. Of course.

Last year, his first Mettare without his family, it had been all so very different. They both had been too caught up in the celebrations at her home, the excitement of the wedding planning, to be melancholy for too very long. This year, in this more familiar space, Faramir would miss his brother more. And his father. Regardless of the fact the former Steward had been, to all accounts, not a man of warmth.

Five candles burned. Five. One for each of his family and one each for Théoden and Théodred.

A hard lump stuck in her throat.

It was a kindness to honour her Uncle and her cousin too.

With a sudden sinking feeling she had no doubt who had felt the sudden need for light.

.

This was written on planes as I was travelling for work and had so many typos and issues I have finally begun to revise!

A Christmas prezzie for Annafan. Sprinkled with 'gifts', or easter eggs if you prefer, based on references to her stories. See how many you can guess!