Chapter 10

Lothíriel felt a strange, sickening jolt to her stomach with every step the palfrey took. Her uncle's orders had been clear: she was to marry king Théoden's heir. And her father nor she had protested as it was a great honour.

The Rohirrim had stayed for a long time at Minas Tirith, negotiating the treaty and marriage contract, and now all were summoned to Denethor's court to celebrate the engagement so carefully crafted. She had always known her life would take this course. Still her mind and heart had protested for a moment, hesitant about this unknown man, whereas her body and mouth had not. But her father had not uttered a word, not even to her in private – she had expected him to say something at least…

Now his broad body was planted on his horse. She watched his back as they travelled down the small mountain pass riddled with stones and could not determine whether his shoulders emanated anger, lack of feeling or compassion. Her gaze travelled downward to his lower back as she lost herself in thought, not attempting to keep her head held high since none were on the road to observe her conduct. Did it matter to him whom she wed? The horse trod carefully, afraid to slip. She liked to think it did matter… and was quite sure it did… And yet he appeared so unmoved and stern.

She wondered whether her future husband would be quite so unmoved…

Théodred.

An artist of Rohan had travelled with all haste to Dol Amroth to draw her likeness and show it to his lord as soon as the proposal had hung in the air. The artist had come and gone in such haste since the engagement had been proposed so suddenly. He had spent quite some time on it yet had offered her only a hasty sketch which she assumed embellished his likeness. It was quite difficult to assess how he actually looked. Apparently it was more important to show her future husband or family what she looked like than vice versa.

Nonetheless, she had heard of him. They had described him positively, but that was normal where their future ruler was concerned. She felt quite confident he would make a good husband hearing their accounts. And yet… Her duty was to marry him, carry his children, help rule his lands… How would she manage?

Her mother had not been there to explain what her future husband would expect of her or to describe her duties as a wife, nor had she been there to set the example. Sure, she had had her aunt Ivriniel's example of steering a household, and now had her sister-in-law's, yet she had never seen how things had been between her parents. Her father was lord still, and ruled alone. She did not know how to please a man, and had only seen how some wives giggle each time Elphir teasingly approached Amdiriel when they shared a private moment in a room filled with family. She did not feel she would be that type of wife. She did not know how to be a good consort and help a husband and lord to make decisions, nor had she ever seen such an interaction.

Amdiriel. Daughter of hope. She was an only child of highborn parents, begotten only after years of trying and – it was said – the Valar's ultimate approval. She had proven herself a worthy wife and had given Elphir a son, Alphros, but had not yet had the opportunity to truly rule together with him. The War of the Ring and father's absence had given them few possibilities to do so as it had disrupted the usual workings of government. People had been too afraid, too excited, too hopeful.

Her sister-in-law's marriage with Elphir had been the outcome of much negotiating by her weary parents, hoping to find an exceptional husband for their much-desired daughter. They had grown old and had tied their lands and daughter to the energetic son of the lord of Dol Amroth, hoping he would keep all they held dear safe.

It had been common knowledge to the family that Elphir had gallivanted during his youth, finally setting his sights on the daughter of a wealthy merchant, fittingly called Advirel. For years since he was seventeen he met her in secret. What had been sheer infatuation because of her angelic looks had turned into respect and love. Like a famished mongrel he ran for her bed and arms whenever he could, craving her body and mind. Lothíriel imagined he told her everything, and she thought such trust was love. It had taken a great deal of conviction to get him to marry Amdiriel, their household had been filled with irate screams and flying chamber pots. To her knowledge Amdiriel had no idea about the other woman's existence, and she knew not whether this was a blessing or whether her sister-in-law should be pitied.

Sometimes she watched Elphir and Amdiriel and wondered whether they were happy, and then she wondered whether her father and mother had been. She wondered whether Elphir still visited Advirel, who had hurriedly been married before anyone could get a whiff of her and Elphir's affair.

It seemed he did not, but Lothíriel was certain that his heart still ached for her. Sometimes she caught him looking at the stars with a touch of melancholy in his eyes, and she imaged Advirel doing the same thing in that exact same moment, while her husband embraced her, imploring her to join him in bed.

Lothíriel hoped he would be kind. Théodred. Would she be his Amdiriel or his Advirel? She knew not which to hope for or which to loathe.

The road to Minas Tirith was long and tiresome. Yet Faramir awaited her, and she looked forward to seeing him again and, especially, to feeling his comfort.

It would have been easier to go to Rohan, yet Denethor had insisted the engagement would be announced in his city under his auspices. Her uncle would show his splendour once more, and people would forget it had been Théoden king to propose the match.

But deep inside Lothíriel wished it so. While there was a chance that her marriage would be a complete disappointment and a trial, she would have a grand feast in Denethor's splendid great hall. Those peasant nobles of Rohan would be overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all; and the peasants staying at home would be overcome by the stories, which would take the proportions of myth.

What better way to announce the birth of a queen?

Éowyn felt a strange jolt to her stomach – nay, it crossed her entire body. They were to depart for Minas Tirith, and soon she would see Faramir. Though she did not know of what nature their relationship was exactly, she felt very anxious to see him.

A movement caught her eye. There they were, in the corner of the great hall, two intertwined beings, hair like yellow straw interwoven with dark red copper strings, lips claiming one another, whispers resounding. She snorted and only afterwards the hope crossed her mind that they had not heard her – though judging from their embrace it seemed not.

It had been clear that Freija was Éomer's latest conquest and the most frequent visitor of his bed of late. She cared not for it since he certainly was not the only young Rohirrim laying with more women, nor was it uncommon to show affection in public – at least when commoners were involved. Nonetheless, she felt it was only a physical bond between them and no emotional one, and for this reason the image before her eyes seemed inappropriate to her. Also, he was royalty, after all.

Théodred, on the other hand – the reason for which she had entered the great hall, since he had absentmindedly left his mantle thrown over his horse's saddle and she feared it would get filthy in the stables –, was sitting silently and filled with melancholy at a table pushed in a corner, paying the couple no head. She knew her cousin and saw that he wanted to make it work, know his wife, build a pleasurable, worthwhile life with her… But would his future wife want the same?

Faramir had told her oft about Lothíriel, and as Éowyn pictured her in her mind, she seemed to her a noble, fair and gentle lady, with the hair of a raven and bright eyes. She liked to imagine her to be very beautiful in physique and an equal of Théodred in mind. At least, Faramir had described her as sharp-witted and ably educated in politics and tactics.

Would she be a very feminine, somewhat airheaded or superficial Gondorian lady or would she be a fierce one, able to match the strength of character of Rohan's women? Would she yield to her husband or fight him? Would Théodred appreciate the one or the other option more?

She placed Théodred's cloak over a chair, absent-mindedly patting it with her hands to prevent it from creasing, and sat down on the chair since none of her relatives paid her any attention.

Her cousin already seemed indecisive, as if he had yielded on beforehand faced with the conquest of this future wife he had to make.

Such a contrast when placed against Éomer's evident control he had unconsciously placed over Freija by taking her to his bed: she would obey him and when he would marry someone suited, she would be sent away – at least, Éowyn hoped. She knew quite a few men preferred to keep mistresses or occasionally strayed, and she hoped she herself could avoid such a fate – though she did not wish it on the women who found themselves in Freija's position.

She had to admit she understood Freija, seeing Éomer's masculine frame in his handsome uniform, next to whom Théodred in this instance lacked luster. (Nonetheless, she was sure he would compose himself when his musing was over, and even more so when they would approach Gondor and Minas Tirith, especially when he would meet his intended.) And Freija herself could have been quite regal with her red hair, alight, were it not for her comportment…

Théodred stood next to her as her eyes were drawn to her brother and Freija. She had not noticed his presence. Already he had straightened his shoulders, and his official garments shined more brightly now as they had seemed dull before through his stance.

She suddenly felt an unannounced pride filling her body, intermingling with the jolty excitement, for her cousin and for Rohan. Rohirric men were proud, fierce creatures. Faramir was an able man both in war and in mind, but she had difficulty imagining him so fervent as the men of Rohan were…

And! – her stomach jolted as she realized – she would see him! In a few more days! A very girlish giggle escaped her mind and was unleashed in her inner self, though it did not cross her lips and imperceptibly broke her composure for a split second only, raising up to her eyes.

"We depart soon," Théodred said, interrupting her thoughts. "Father is waiting for us." He picked up the cloak and put it on. He appeared not to see her excitement.

"Aye," she acknowledged, not looking up to him from where she was seated.

Éomer joined them, he must have heard their cousin's words. "Let us depart, then."

He departed from the room without once looking back to Freija, and Éowyn, glancing at the girl, knew not whether to feel relief or irritation at this.

Théodred's hand on her shoulder carried her outside the doors of Edoras, though his guidance was unnecessary, as her feet lightly and gladly floated her towards the stables, towards her horse Windfola, towards Gondor, towards Minas Tirith…

Nimien felt a most sickening feeling to her stomach, stopped her horse in haste and vomited out of nowhere. She felt weak and feverish thinking that Denethor would note her obviously pregnant state.

Along the entire road through Lamedon people had congratulated her enthusiastically. Denethor would be very pleased as well – and would already have heard the rumours, even in his augmented isolation since Boromir's death – but Nimien feared he would keep her in Minas Tirith, though her father had assured her this would not be the case. "Even if he wishes to, I will not let him," he had said.

Now he examined her, eyeing her sitting on his horse that stood alongside her. His eyes asked Everything all right? but his mouth did not utter words, nor did she answer. From the look she gave him he understood the silent warning: I hope he will allow me to return with you.

She felt slightly resentful since he had forced her to come: she was the best possible advertisement for her family, and her position as widow of the steward's heir and the woman carrying his child made her presence at Minas Tirith indispensible.

They rode together in silence, leading the procession which travelled to Lamedon. Their mother had stayed home with the children as she was too weak to travel and handle the stress of the voyage and feast. Behind them rode Aglarân, Ghasaan and Baineth, who had some time after arriving at Calembel given birth to another son, Arhanar. 'Royal brother'. As promised they had chosen a name from Baineth's family: the name of their father Angbor's grandfather.

Some time had passed between the negotiations and announcement of the engagement, and Baineth had felt she was fit to travel. Nimien suspected, however, that her sister wished to be by her side when she returned to Minas Tirith, the city which had given her both pain and joy.

She wondered how Lothíriel fared. The noblewoman was younger than her still and found herself in the same situation in which Nimien had found herself all this time ago.

She remembered her own anxiety when travelling to Minas Tirith to marry Boromir. All the frightening thoughts that has passed through her mind. She had entered the White City surrounded by her family but with a frightened, beating heart, feeling as small as a mouse.

Being a girl living so far away from court, it had been the first time she had seen its gates, walls and buildings. She had imagined then that they would seem very grand and imposing to every person visiting the city for the first time, but it had been an all the more frightening experience in that decisive moment: the moment her life would change forever.

They had travelled along the main road, reached the higher levels and the citadel, where they had dismounted and entered Denethor's grand hall. The steward had sat on his high throne, his sons gathered standing at his feet.

As her father, brother and Ghasaan preceded her and her sister to formally greet the men, Nimien remembered eyeing both sons curiously, wondering which one would be her husband. In appearance they were very similar, with their dark hair and grey eyes. It was a frequent trait in Gondor, but they radiated something more: a nobility which could not often be found in common men. She soon discovered her husband would be the sturdier one, as he approached after her father had introduced both his daughters with a gesture.

This man, who she had never met before, looked her in the eye and kissed her hand and spoke kind words in a pleasant voice, and she felt uncomfortable by the proximity of someone who was a stranger but who – she also knew – would soon possess her body and soul.

Not that she had not been prepared for such a role: Gondorian habits and rituals – such as this very first meeting – clearly showed the proper role of the woman and wife. They were mostly kept to the background.

She knew her fate would be mostly confined to that: a role in the background, to be brought to the front only on official occasions when diplomacy demanded – as a prize for her husband. In effect the ritual words spoken by the future spouses at the ceremony balanced between partnership and submission.

As accustomed they did not only exchange wedding bands – a fine silver pair with elegant dandelion motifs designed by the best silversmith in Minas Tirith. She instantly read the meaning he attributed to their wedding: dandelions stood symbol for overcoming hardship. This encouraged her somewhat. They would work on the marriage together and face their trials together.

He presented her with a fine belt decorated with lapis and the very same motifs and as they faced each other after the exchange of the rings, bound it around her waist with a delicate move. She remembered his smile in that moment as they looked at each other, and remembered thinking that he must feel as uneasy as she did.

In turn, she handed him a sword, which had been forged especially for him and decorated with tiny lapis stones and the very same motif as the wedding bands and belt. Her father had had the blade made by his finest smith in whom he had full trust and had summoned the silversmith to decorate the hilt.

Both gifts symbolized the families' new attachment to one another since they had put a lot of effort in having them made and had communicated intensively on their design. Both also symbolized fertility and fidelity: the belt delineated his territory so that no-one else would touch her and it accentuated her hips which would produce his offspring; the sword symbolized not only his masculinity and virility but also his ability to protect her and his own, his larger family, wife and children, and subjects.

They. Together. A family.

Now she knew it would only be herself and her child.

Then, however, the symbolism she had been taught since she was a little girl had made her even more nervous: what kind of husband would he be? Would he protect her? Be kind or dominant? How many children would they have? Would he support them or chide them? Beat them even?

After the ceremony Boromir led her out and into the hall, which was beautifully lit as it would be on that very night to celebrate Théodred and Lothíriel.

The first dance they shared on their wedding feast was also the first true conversation they had had.

After their introduction they had had little time with the preparations for the wedding, which was to take place the very next day. The evening before celebrations had been held in all of the city, and the men had gotten drunk in the great hall, but Baineth and Nimien had been confined to their chambers and had watched the lights and heard the roaring and laughing and feasting in the city streets and throughout the citadel. They had not been summoned since engagement feasts had already been held months on beforehand, for which they had not travelled to Minas Tirith, and because these bawdy celebrations were no place for women.

The next day she had been ushered to her chambers to be transformed into the perfect bride, with her sister tending to her to calm down her nerves. She had seen him once in passing after breakfast, but then they were both rushed away again.

And then, before she knew it, they were dancing. Talking. He seemed kind and kept a decent conversation. She was unsure what they talked about – which dances they preferred? Probably. That night as well they had been ushered from group to group, Boromir talking to his friends and she being introduced decently to the important lord and ladies, to end up with Baineth. She and her sister had observed the couples dancing like two young girls dreaming to be like them one day.

Then Ghasaan, her sister's charming husband, had detached himself from the men and entertained them both before whisking his wife away to dance a happier dance more to his tastes.

Then Boromir joined her, watching them with her.

"They seem content," he stated.

"Aye," she answered, "they do."

They shared a look. "How did your father decide to give her to a man from Harad?"

Nimien hesitated. "It was her own choice. They met on the local market and Ghasaan – so he says – was enchanted instantly. They met again that very evening at my father's house since Ghasaan, a wealthy merchant, had been invited there. Then as their acquaintance progressed, they came to care for each other. I remember how my sister used to look south thinking of him, how merry she was when he returned to Lamedon. When their feelings came to my father's notice, his prejudices about the Haradrim abated and since Ghasaan had advanced himself greatly in the world he could not but accept his offer for Baineth's hand. And they do well together, I deem."

His brow furrowed as he tried to conceive the notion. She reckoned he disapproved of Baineth's choice and her father's acceptance of it. He would confirm later on that this had indeed been his thought, but that the more he got to know Ghasaan, the more he had come to appreciate the foreigner with his strange habits. Though to those from Gondor his language sounded harsh, the way in which he spoke in the Common Tongue proved how honeyed their words were, and how gentle a folk they were.

But before he could utter his thoughts, she was whisked away herself by a wedding courtège that pushed her and Boromir to their new chambers in a frenzy of people.

They were planted facing one another each on one side of a large bed, in a beautifully decorated room with perfect, luxurious pillows. They were put into bed as was custom and then people left the room under chanting and merriment. Her gown felt stiff and pompous underneath the blankets.

When they had departed from the room, Boromir sat up and left the bed. She stayed hidden in the pillows and took advantage of her position to take in the room, and to still her nervous, beating heart. But Boromir surprised her, walking up to her side of the bed and offering her his hand.

He led her to a large stool in beautiful lapis velvet. This made her laugh: "Is our marriage themed entirely in the colour of lapis?!"

He smirked as well, and it was the first time she heard him laugh.

The furry blankets they would have treasured throughout the winter nights in the time they would pass together were there. He made her sit on them and offered her a cup of wine. She already felt inebriated, however, by the amount of wine she had drunk throughout the many courses of the evening. She told him this and he laughed again, saying that at least they would sleep well.

When he kissed her in that very instant, probably to make sure she would not contemplate things any further and get nervous again, it felt new and exciting but also very comforting. In her heart she knew then that this was something good, or rather the start of it. Or did she think of him in romantic terms now, when at the time she was quite scared of him despite his consideration? He did consummate the marriage that night – it would have been foolish to think he would not –, but it was in quite a kind way. And he would prove himself quite a kind husband for most of the time of their marriage, too.

Nimien hoped Lothíriel could find a similar, simple joy or contentment in her marriage to Théodred. She sympathised with Lothíriel's undoubtedly present fears and her heart travelled with her late husband's cousin, a woman who had always been so kind to her.

Whereas Lothíriel had often seen the White City, and Nimien had lived there, the other young woman travelling found her excitement well rewarded. Éowyn was enticed by the tall gates, the tall white buildings, that white stone which seemed smooth and soft to the touch. By its towering walls and keep, so grand and stately compared to Rohan; it seemed as if nothing, not even magic could breach these walls and gates, destroy these eternal stones. By its people, which seemed so neat and educated when she thought of Rohan's rough, beardy men and women with loose, unruly hair. Here much more women had braided hair or chignons, it seemed to her; their hair was not so unruly as hers. Very few men had beards, they all seemed so clean-shaven and decent. Blue and silvery eyes seemed to see right through her, and from that moment on, when that thought had passed her mind, she suddenly felt very uneasy.

Yet there were a pair of eyes she knew, and she had to contain herself to not urge Windfola to reach his horse.

Faramir!

The steward's son's silvery eyes crossed hers for a moment, but then he hardly deigned her a glance. A sudden doubt crept up on her: had his feelings towards her changed?

He certainly was in good enough company without her… She observed the men and women who rode with him, they all seemed so exotic to her. The women were more elegant than she had ever seen before, the men more regal than she feared her cousin to be.

But when she looked at Théoden King, Théodred and Éomer, their backs were straight and they emanated something which could not be named. Something which was more than regal. Pride pulsed in her veins. Their official warlike attire was quite something else when compared to the Gondorean dress attire, which seemed almost sheepish.

Only Faramir's and the steward's clothes stood out. Their doublets were light yet sturdy and of a dark, elegant blue and black. They wore elegant riding boots. Faramir looked very different compared to what she was used to. Even when the feast had been held back home he had not looked so elegant. She guessed this was a very formal and official outfit most suitable for the steward and his son. He was now the only heir and had to look the part.

She felt a smile of approval crossing her face, and only in that moment his gaze, which had trained her companions for the entire time, turned back to her. For a split second – no more – a look of wonder crossed his face, then something else, and she gladly knew he had realized she approved. She felt warm and happy inside.

One woman was suddenly introduced to her: Nimien. She was very beautiful, with curly hair and an exotic appearance. Faramir smiled too much watching them, and she felt another heat – this time of jealousy – surging, though she knew she was his sister and did not fail to note the woman was with child.

But Nimien greeted Éowyn most warmly and gently took her by the arm in greeting her, reaching out from atop her horse, forgetting decorum for a moment. A simple "Faramir has told me a great deal about you!" followed by gentle chatter was enough to sway Éowyn's quick instinctive judgment in her favour.

The lord Denethor kept himself to greeting her from afar, paying more attention to the lords of Rohan. They led the procession to the city's political centre. Éowyn held back, staying behind Nimien who outranked her being the widow of Boromir's child and carrying his son. The men led the train.

The lady Lothíriel had not yet arrived. She would in a few days and after a week the grand feast would be held to celebrate their engagement. Éowyn was curious how this woman would be, since Faramir's descriptions seemed so positive.

She had feared her days to be dull and filled with formality or Gondorian women sulking over dresses for the feast.

However, whenever they found a moment in which no one needed them, in which no tasks awaited them – which was, naturally, more difficult for Faramir than for Éowyn –, they visited the city or went out riding.

He showed her his preferred places carved in white marble, including a small orchard on the fourth level, and they were accompanied by Éothain, who had been appointed as her personal guard during these non-official moments. Inside the city walls her brother's friend was very cautious since many people passed them by and he could not be sure of their intentions.

It irked Faramir, he let slip once, how Éothain was ever present, even when Éomer was not, accompanying them like a loyal dog would follow at his master's heels. But after some of these few encounters, he came to realize that the rider was making sure Éowyn's virtue would never be questioned, nor would anyone ask questions about the relationship between the steward's son and the king's niece.

Besides, he conveniently made himself scarce often enough whenever they were out of the city's sights. Once they had reached the woods, Éowyn and Faramir often found themselves almost alone, the rider trailing behind them amusing himself and offering them some privacy though never leaving them completely out of sight.

Éowyn started to long for these moments. They were precious, stolen moments in which she had no duty or propriety to be occupied with: she felt fairly at ease with him. Enough at ease to let go her last reserve towards Faramir and forget about etiquette.

On one such an occasion, to avoid the hustle the grand feast of that evening would bring, he took her to a waterfall which name was too difficult for her to remember. The water cascaded down in a large lake and was surrounded by large, sturdy trees. They cast welcome shade on the place, which suffered from the heat Minas Tirith and its environment had suffered during these days. One tree trunk conveniently rested on the southern bank of the lake but she decided against sitting on it. The grass seemed too inviting.

"This is one of my favourite places," he said, and then remained silent.

Éowyn did not mind.

She took off her supple riding boots made from the skin of deer and stepped into the grass. The few days in Minas Tirith had bereft her of this small pleasure so easily found at Edoras. The grass was soft and damp, and made her feel like one of the elegant elves from the tales. What would an elf look like? Even Faramir, bright Faramir, had to admit he had never seen one.

She felt Faramir's gaze on her as they stood in silent contentment and she turned towards him and smiled heartily. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized they felt the same connection in this moment. Only, he seized the moment by crushing his lips into hers, a bit too rude at first – not like she knew him at all – before softening. She pulled back, feeling his hand on her back that held her close – how had it gotten there? –, and moved back in. She felt drawn to him, but strange and unsure. Yet in that brief moment before she decidedly pulled back, she was drawn to him in an embrace which lasted only a split second and sent her spinning – and it felt right.

But then she brusquely moved away and the moment of enchantment passed.

They stood staring at each other, not knowing how to act, what to say. Had she been any peasant girl his actions would be less grave, but since she was a noblewoman he should surely be reprimanded. Yet Éowyn said nothing and could say nothing.

A twig snapped.

Éothain.

Their heads turned towards him.

The Rohir walked back and raised his hands in apology. She would have to speak to him later.

Their heads turned back to each other.

His eyes pierced hers, making her feel cold with fear. His mouth opened, closed, wavered.

"Éowyn… I – I apologize…" After moments of silence, he uttered: "I know not what came over me…"

She found she was still incapable of responding, how unlike her…

Then she recovered, and found her Rohirric strength: he did not, after all, touch her improperly or try to rape her… She had heard enough tales of far worse men and their brutal actions.

"No matter," she stammered, and then found her voice. With more resolution, she then added what she had just told herself: "Men do far worse."

"Oh Éowyn," he now sighed himself. Tears brimmed at his eyes but his voice was stern and angry. "Do you truly believe me to be such a man?" He barely raised his voice yet it seemed to her as if he almost shouted since he had never spoken to her in such a tone – and she was content he did not actually sound angry. Where would Éothain be? Would he hear their argument? She sensed they were running headlong into an argument and she did not like the notion.

"No," she responded firmly.

His eyes pleaded with her: why did you move away? But his face had taken up its mask again and remained unmoved. His voice not faltering, the perfect courtier, he resumed: "I apologize. I acted most inappropriately. It shall never happen again."

Faramir stood for a moment, taking up her entire figure with a long, empty gaze. Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

Éowyn turned her gaze to the lake, her mind devoid of any coherent thought since it was filled with confusing thoughts that troubled her and yet did not trouble her at the same time.

His footsteps moved away from her. She heard twigs breaking and leaves ruffling.

Then the sound stopped.

Then it returned.

The sound moved in on her. The sound of Faramir.

She did not look at him, but felt his presence just behind her. She imagined his lean figure behind her, and the way in which he spoke to her told her that he stood proud and firm: his voice was calm and determined as he enunciated his thoughts.

"My lady Éowyn," he started, "allow me to speak."

She absent-mindedly gazed over the water trying to capture every detail of his words. She feared that if she would turn to face him he would see the emotion on her face. She herself had not even decided what that emotion was.

She uttered an assent.

"You must know I feel a most genuine friendship for you…"

She heard how he inhaled the warm, damp air surrounding her, his breath barely reaching her neck. He must be so close, and yet so far. She'd rather have him pacing up and down the grass than having to witness his sternness.

Though she did not turn, she imagined him to be the spitting image of his father in this very moment: unmoved.

She was wrong, he was holding back too much emotion.

"I – I even believe I have grown to nurture… more ardent… feelings for you… even before – when…" A moment of hesitation. "I believe this has not escaped your attention…"

At this her head jerked to the side, though she did not wish it to. It was not hers to command any more.

She saw how he bit his lip, and how he then composed himself as he saw her eyes upon him.

Again, Éowyn did not respond, did not know how.

Faramir raised an eyebrow. "It did."

It was an affirmation.

She realized she had wished him to speak these words, and as he spoke them they confused her. It was as if he was not allowed to utter them, as if he by expressing his thoughts he was breaking what was between them – the future she had constructed in her mind. What if they ruined their friendship? What if the image of him she had in her mind would reveal itself to be something completely different in reality? What if this unexpected kiss was proof of his unruly nature, even a violent one? But how could she think of him in this way and fear him, as in this short time she had come to know him better than anyone did? She found no words to convey these thoughts to him, knowing how they would hurt him. She knew not even what she wished to say to him.

His face turned pale, but something in his eyes flashed. A silvery light, bright and seemingly even dangerous. It scared her: did she see him angry for the very first time? Even worse: did he try to hide it?

"Very well," he spoke, calm. "I have misjudged your feelings. I apologize to you once again."

He turned on his heels and walked away.

His horse greeted him audibly and she heard it trotting away.

Éowyn found herself missing his company – already?! – and knew that he had not misjudged. But what could she say? She would seem a mindless brat should she admit that much to him now, after his confession.

She approached her horse.

Would he return to Minas Tirith without her? What would people think when he arrived alone knowing they had departed together with Éothain? It would disgrace both of them and make people doubt their good relations.

He would not.

He would wait.

For her.

For how long? For now, yes. But would he wait afterwards, thinking she cared not for him as he wished her to?

She turned her gaze back to the lake, trying to find peace. But peace did not come, and the hours drew on.

Evening dawned on her and Éothain, who had held back until she had reached him. "Please," she had said to her companion as she saw his questioning look, "we shall talk later."

They mounted their horses and traced the forest's edge until they found Faramir, who waited for them down the road to Minas Tirith.

As he saw them he nodded in acknowledgment, and as they approached he turned his horse around and they rode together in silence – Éothain in tow.

They spoke not, though words burnt in her chest she wished to say but could not utter. Éothain felt it was no time for jest. Faramir seemed intent to leave her be for now.

The selfish thought crossed her mind that had she welcomed his intentions as she had perhaps wished to do, they would have passed a wonderful evening together that night in Minas Tirith. A perfect night under the stars – one that every young girl or woman wishes for… Do not think such silly, selfish thoughts! she chided herself.

But the lights of Minas Tirith emerged in the distance, rewarding her with that same magical feeling she had felt in the grass at the lake. She wondered how it was possible that a city possessed so many windows – but then realized that people had lit many lamps and lanterns to celebrate Gondor's desired matrimony with Rohan. Though the air was growing chill, her heart warmed at the thought that this strange, reserved dark-haired folk was willing to welcome her cousin. She hoped with affection.

On a lone mountaintop, a pair of grey eyes in a grim face studied those same lights and then retreated into the darkness.

Amdiriel = 'daughter of hope'

Advirel = 'heirloom woman'

Arhanar = 'royal brother'

Dandelion = symbol for overcoming hardship

For those of you who thought that this was out of character, I quote my friend: "I always liked to think that Éowyn managed to loosen Faramir up a bit, after his upbringing at the Gondorian court." :)