The sun is beginning to drift down towards the mountains behind us as we wind our way up from the river bank towards the house at the top of the hill. Not just any house – the house that is to my home... our home. I feel an odd surge of feelings, a mixture of anticipation and bubbling excitement, but with a slight undercurrent of worry lest I do not warm to the place. For it clearly means so much to Faramir that he has rebuilt the home of his ancestors.

We have already passed the settlement of sturdily built houses, enclosed within a ring of earthworks and a stout log fence, where the tenant farmers have their dwellings. As we rode along the loop of road past them, Faramir's engineer explained with enthusiasm the planning of the place: each cottage to have its own vegetable garden facing south, pens for farrowing sows and pigs, hen coops. And when I responded with questions, he was happy to tell me more of the work. Like most good craftsmen, once started on describing his work, no detail was too minor – I now know even the arrangement of the privies, and the careful way in which they have been designed to drain into reed banks which will cleanse the waste before it drains into the river. It also pleases me to think that once one has finally escaped the confines of court life in Minas Tirith, it seems that ordinary Gondorian tradespeople and artisans are as down-to-earth and lacking in prudishness as their counterparts in the Mark.

The slope we now traverse faces south and is planted with vines, only small at present, and probably several years from bearing their first harvest, but obviously carefully tended. We ride steadily up the road, and I take a sidelong glance at my husband. Faramir's face glows with excitement and eager anticipation. In his letters, he has described the building work at length, sent sketches of the plans, drawings of the work in progress, and asked what it was I desired for our house, but this is the first time I will have seen the place. The road here is wide and level, well surfaced, so I bring Windfola along side his bay, and reach out to take his hand. He clasps mine in response, and as I look at him I know that my own excitement must show in my face.

The main bulk of the house sits on a rocky outcrop above the scarp slope of the hill, but on the gentler side, there is a wide area enclosed within a stone wall, with a deep dyke running along the outside. If I needed any reminder that Ithilien was still not a safe place, and needed defending and cleansing of the remnant of our enemies, the care with which Faramir and his engineer have prepared the defences would serve as that reminder. The road leads up to a gatehouse, but I note that above each hairpin in the road, high on the walls above there is a guard tower. They provide an ideal vantage point from which to rain arrows on attackers just at the point where their advance slows.

"These fortifications are well thought out," I say.

"Thank you, my lady wife," Faramir replies with a little bow of his head. "Praise from a battle-hardened soldier is worth the having. Though I pray to the Valar that we may need them rarely if at all."

"They are much more extensive than the ones round the village."

"The fortifications for the village are intended to help them to withstand occasional attacks from bandits – should a larger military threat arise, the villagers would have to take shelter in the outer courtyard of our house."

We turn the last bend, and the gates of the house open. From within, a small group of men-at-arms appear, and stand to attention flanking the entrance. As we finally reach the gate, I realise they are led by Beregond. Faramir greets him warmly, and in response he brings his hand to his chest in salutation. We ride into the courtyard, and Faramir swings himself down from the saddle, then walks over to me.

"My lady, may I help you dismount?" My eyebrows must give away my surprise, for he smiles and continues, "Not because I think you need help – only a fool would think that. I know you could best me in any test of horsemanship that I could imagine. His grin broadens, and he adds, "And probably a few that I have never even thought of. I simply wish to welcome my bride to her new home." He holds up his hands, and I slide from Windfola's back into his embrace. He presses a kiss to my brow, then releases me, only to tuck my hand in the crook of his arm, his face positively aglow with happiness.

The next hour or so passes in a whirl of activity. Faramir shows me everything – the stables (of course he knows me well enough to start with the stables), the store rooms and granaries, the soldiers' barracks, the servants' quarters, the hall, the kitchens. I am very surprised to discover that in one corner of the enclosed courtyard there are several dozen newly-planted saplings of fruit trees, barely more than an ell high.

"There were fruit trees in the garden of our house in Minas Tirith. My mother planted them summer after Boromir was born, and it is one of my few memories of early childhood, sitting under the trees with my mother. I got the gardeners in Minas Tirith to take cuttings so that I could plant them in this corner next to the new house." Faramir's voice is soft, his face lost in memories of his childhood. "We would sit out beneath their shade every summer to escape the heat of the city. And my mother would play hide and seek with us amid the trees, or sit beneath their shade and recite stories. But then, after she died, we came no more."

I am not one for flowery words, so instead I reach out and clasp his hand, and say, simply, "I am glad you have been able to plant the trees." Faramir smiles, and leads me back within the house.

The hall is well appointed, with an elegant wooden roof (I remember Faramir saying he had asked my brother for master carvers from the Mark to come and assist his engineer). In place of the traditional Rohirric fire-pit, however, it has the huge fireplace set within a chimney breast that is typical of Gondor. Faramir looks slightly uncertain as to how I will react to this detail, but I assure him that I consider the lack of smoke within the hall to be an improvement on my country's traditions, and that the beautiful wood carvings on the beams will do more than enough to assuage any yearning for my homeland. Finally my husband leads me (and, regrettably, our entourage as well) to our own private living rooms. Still, there is an enticing glint in his eye as he he shows me into a small room next to our bed chamber.

He smiles and says, "See, madam, many moons ago in Edoras I promised you a bath large enough for both of us, and I have made good on my promise."

Edith, who has been following us around on our tour, says (with an admirably straight face), "Shall I have hot water prepared for after your supper, my lord, my lady?"

"Yes, please do." I cannot keep my countenance as well as she can – I feel a broad grin spread across my face.

Edith busies herself inspecting the bedchamber. She gives a nod of approval. "I see the linens have been properly aired, and the clothes presses scented with lavender and cedar oils to keep the moths away. I'll see to it that the bed is warmed ready for you to retire."

Faramir smiles. "I think Beregond's wife has taken charge of the household while they waited for our arrival." Ever the diplomat, he adds, "But I think she will be glad to get back to her own house in the village, and to the running of her small holding. Bergil, their eldest, is old enough now to be in training as a squire, but the four younger ones keep her busy."

We return to the hall, where Bergond's lady, Haleth, has seen to it that a meal is set out for us – fowl, meat, vegetables. We take our place at the high table on the dais, our servants and men-at-arms at the tables running the length of the hall. There is food aplenty, though plain, hearty fare, and Haleth serves all of us a welcome cup of mead. Tomorrow we shall have the feast to celebrate our arrival, and all the members of the household and villagers shall have a chance to make merry. But tonight is a simple meal of welcome after our long journey.

I sit at Faramir's left and reach out to take his hand. Fingers laced together, our hands rest upon the oak table, and we look at one another. His smile is broad, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a warm affection. We care not that this is more affection than noble couples are meant to display in public.

And after supper, we retire to our chambers. The bath is indeed large enough for both of us, the water hot, and the bed afterwards warm and welcoming, and tired as we are, it is still several hours before we sleep, hours which are by turns loving, gentle, then filled with passionate desire, then gentle once more. And we sleep in each other's arms, untroubled by nightmares.

~o~O~o~

As we break our fast, Faramir and I discuss what needs to be done this day. I agree with Faramir that we should meet with his factor and ride round the nearer part of estates to visit the various tenant farmers. Once the serving maids have cleared the table, Faramir spreads a map across it and indicates the lie of the land. Immediately round Emyn Arnen is a swathe of land whose tenants owe their allegiance directly to Faramir. Further afield are small manors belonging to various knights of Gondor, with Faramir as their liege-lord and prince. Most were abandoned as Ithilien became increasingly lawless and dangerous, and are only now slowly being rebuilt.

Faramir and I discuss the things we wish to discover on our travels. First and foremost, it behoves us to check that there are sufficient supplies of food and seed for everyone. Winter is coming to an end. This means that everyone is dependent on stored food from the last harvest, supplemented by whatever small game they can take from the woods, and whatever fish they can catch in Anduin. We need to check that no family is struggling. But it also means it is the time of the first planting, and with no grain laid aside from previous harvests, we need to check that the supplies of seed corn from the coastal areas have arrived and have been fairly distributed. I hope that we can learn both from my experiences in the Mark, and from having seen the shocking and parlous state of some parts of Anórien.

However, before we set off, I have household matters to attend to. I make my way to the kitchen to find both Edith and Haleth directing a veritable army of cooks, assistants, turnspits, scullery maids and the like. I check on their plans for the feast, and for details like the long trestle tables to be placed outside for the villagers, with two large bonfires to roast wild boar and an ox, and braziers to stop the festive mood being spoiled by the chill night air. Haleth assures me that plenty of fallen wood from winter storms has been gathered in from the surrounding woods. In the corner I see Borlas and Nimwen sitting playing a game of rolling stones. I catch a glimpse of Edith looking at them with a slightly irritated look, and beckon to them. Best to get them engaged in something constructive rather than simply getting under everyone's feet.

"Would you like a job?"

The two of them nod shyly.

"Go and ask Haleth what sorts of evergreens and herbs would be best to decorate the tables, then see what you can find amid the fruit trees and kitchen garden. But mind you only take what Haleth can spare." The two of them nod and whisk off to find Haleth.

A few last checks to make sure that there is nothing I need to do, and I leave the kitchens in the safe hands of Edith and Haleth. Faramir is waiting for me beside the stables, both our horses already saddled.

As we ride through the gate, I rein Windfola in tight, and stop for a moment. My biggest worry before I came here had been that I would feel as trapped in the densely wooded slopes around Emyn Arnen as I had amid the stone walls of Minas Tirith. But the view is breathtaking. The hillside we rode up late yesterday afternoon now drops away spectacularly, sweeping down to the river. Beyond the broad, slow moving waters, the green plain stretches all the way to Mount Mindolluin, the southern end of the White Mountains behind it. And perched on its prow of rock sits the White City, glistening in the morning light shining from the east.

Faramir has wheeled his destrier round and faces me, an expectant look on his face. "Béma, it's beautiful," I say, and a joyous smile spreads across his face.

We ride many miles that morning, attended by the factor and a clerk, as well as a few men-at-arms. The factor turns out to be another of Faramir's retired rangers, and Faramir has made his choice well. As we visit not just the village at the foot of the hill, but various smaller hamlets and lone farms, it seems that food has been distributed in sufficient quantity and sufficiently fairly that no one has been left wanting, although (as is the case everywhere in the aftermath of war) supplies are basic, and rations are short. The seed stock is a bit more of a problem. Some of the farmers more recently returned from seeking refuge in the city have not yet got supplies to plant, and on the instruction of the factor, the clerk makes careful notes as to where the next shipments of seed should be sent when they arrive.

The clerk also turns out to be a valuable addition to the household. A man from the rich, fertile lands of Lamedon, he has useful thoughts on agriculture. In particular, he recommends a couple of techniques to the farmers, for avoiding potato blight and carrot root flies – rotating crops and allowing the fields to lie fallow, and making sure that potato and carrot leaving should not be put back in the kitchen garden, but instead should be mulched into the grain fields when the stubble is ploughed back into the land in Autumn. This way, he says, any blight or fly eggs do not lie in the soil to ready to hatch the next year's crop. Some of the farmers, I can tell, are sceptical and do not see the point of making a fuss. But others regard him with shrewd eyes that seem to say that at the very least these suggestions will be mulled over in the coming months.

The sun is past her zenith by several hours when we return to Emyn Arnen. We find the hall swept up in a frenzy of preparation, so collect some bread and cheese and a couple of tankards of ale from the kitchen and retire to our private sitting room. After a short period of most welcome rest, our solitude is interrupted by Acha, who comes bustling in and shoos Faramir away, insisting that she must dress my hair and help me into my gown in readiness for the evening's feast.

~o~O~o~

Edith and Haleth have excelled themselves with the feast. Somehow they have cleverly used the provisions we have, supplemented with game from the forest, to provide everyone from the guests on the high table to the villagers at the trestles outside with generous amounts of food. There is suckling pig, and roast ox, venison and duck, loaves of bread, platters of root vegetables, sauces flavoured with herbs and meat juices. Ale and mead flows freely, and everyone eats and drinks to their heart's content.

After the meal is finished, we go outside to where the ox and boars have been roasted above bonfires to feed the villagers and tenant farmers. The menfolk move the trestle tables to one side to make space for dancing. As Faramir and I stand together on the steps, a couple of the children come up to us with posies made from evergreen leaves and a few of the early crocuses that begin to appear presaging the spring. On impulse, as the children hand us the flowers, I stoop and kiss each of them on the brow. I can feel my cheeks warming as the crowd cheers my gesture. Then Faramir holds up a hand.

In a clear, strong voice, he thanks the people of the estate for their welcome, and for joining us in this feast to celebrate our arrival. He talks briefly of what we have seen so far, and the hard work he has already seen. He stresses that we know there may be some farms and small holdings struggling to find enough seed corn, and that he intends to visit the whole estate over the coming days. Not surprisingly, for I know my husband to be a skilled diplomat, he keeps the speech short and to the point, then invites the small band of musicians to strike up so that everyone can dance.

We stand side by side, watching the adults and children dance beneath the trees. The dance is a simple country dance: the men and women face one another in a long line. With much shrieking and gaiety, each couple takes a turn to gallop up the centre of the set and back. Then the real fun begins. The pair pass down the line a third time, alternately spinning each other and being spun by the men and women lining the side of the set until finally, giddy and breathless, they reach the top and a new couple take their turn. The air is full of the cries and shouts of merriment. The men seem to delight in seeing how fast they can spin each woman, skirts swirling, hair flying and coming loose from hairpins and braids. The women, if their giggles are any indication, take just as much delight in being flung around in wild arcs.

Faramir smiles at me. "This was always my favourite dance as a child, and even more so as a youth. When we visited our cousins in Dol Amroth in the summer, Boromir and I used to vie with one another to see how loudly we could make the girls squeal."

"I am glad to see that Gondor has some dances that are not staid court measures," I reply. I glance at him, his profile cast into shadow by the light from the bonfire and the torches that light the garden. The outline of his face transports back to that night in the houses of healing where we sat alone in the kitchens in the darkest hours of the night, sharing a flagon of wine. I study his aquiline nose, the line of his neck, his short beard, remembering how I saw him then. Of course, now he is in his courtly finery, dress appropriate to his station, and to the occasion. A very handsome man, I reflect. My very handsome man, and I feel my lips move into a smile. Back in the houses, so many moons ago, he wore a simple shirt, open at the neck and cuffs, sleeves pushed up his forearms.

Filled with a rush of fond amusement, I think back to how much I noticed about him, without really being aware of it. Or perhaps, more accurately, without being consciously aware of it. For surely I must have noticed quite a lot to remember so clearly the way my eyes were drawn to his forearms, sinewy, with a clearly defined but wiry strength. And I recall the breadth of his shoulders beneath the linen shirt. And the faint glimpse of hair on his chest. "Comely" is the word which comes into my mind. I can feel my smile broaden into a grin. I may have been a maiden, but my mind was definitely entertaining some most unmaidenly thoughts.

Faramir turns his head slightly, and studies me for a moment, before his mouth quirks into a half smile. "A penny for your thoughts, my lady of Ithilien. From the look on your face, I'd wager that I'll like whatever has captured your fancy." He reaches out and takes my hand, raising my fingers to his lips, then turning it over and brushing his lips over the inside of my wrist.

"I was thinking of that night when I came upon you in the kitchens in the houses of healing. We had both had nightmares, I think, and gone in search of warmth and sustenance. All we did was to sit together and talk in the glow of the kitchen fire." I hesitate for a moment, then give a quick sidelong glance, smiling at him, before fixing my gaze once more on the dancers. Then I whisper, "But I think, maid that I was, even then, without really realising, I was very aware of you as a man."

Faramir slides his hand across the small of my back. He leans towards me, and brings his head close to mine, the breath from his lips on my ears as he speaks. "Were you now?" His voice is low, seductive, meant only for my ears. The air between us suddenly seems heavy, as if a sudden tension thrums in the night breeze, like a taut cord drawing us together.

Then it suddenly strikes me that, being older and more experienced than me, he might well have been all too aware of my interest in him, even then, right at the beginning, and suddenly I flush with embarrassment. "Did you not realise?" I ask.

I sense a slight lessening of the tension between us, a faint relaxation. "No, I don't think I did. I suppose I assumed you thought of me perhaps as Lothi does, or as an older brother." I take another sidelong glance and see that he is grinning at me. "I am glad I was wrong," he adds, a knowing glint in his eye.

"You were very wrong," I say, realising as I speak that my voice is catching in my throat. Faramir moves a shade closer and leans towards me, his lips near my ear.

"I think I realised that the next night," he whispers. His voice seems as rough and breathless as mine, and suddenly that tension is back, sparking and crackling like the atmosphere before a summer storm. I want to draw him to me, but we are in full view of the whole estate. Instead, I make do with words.

"But the night before, alone with me in the kitchen, what did you think then?"

"To start with? Well, I think I have told you many times before that I was already enamoured of your beauty. But to begin with you told me of your dream, and I felt nothing more than concern and a desire to comfort you. In fact, I think it would have been strange to hear of your fear and suffering and think of anything other than concern." He looks at me, slight frown lines on his brow. But then he reaches out and runs his finger tips across my cheeks. The frown vanishes, to be replaced by one of his faint smiles. "Later, however, it was a different story..." He looks at me, eyes dark in the glimmering firelight.

"Different?" I feel his hand slide from the small of my back to cradle my hip.

"We fell to talking of love, of past love and lost love. And I remember looking at you as you sat by the light of the fire – looking at you and realising I wanted to kiss you... realising I wanted to do more than just kiss you, a lot more."

"And then?"

"And then I tried my hardest to pull myself together. For I could see your total inexperience, your vulnerability, and your trust in me, and I did not wish to abuse that trust."

I cannot help myself – I laugh. "I have said this before, I know. In fact I think I may have said something along those lines that very night: you are too principled for your own good. It is just as well that I did not wait for you to overcome your qualms but instead simply climbed into your bed."

Faramir laughs too, and tightens his grip on my hip, pulling me against him. "I am principled, but not a fool," he says with a grin. "And I can always be swayed by a well-constructed argument... And you argued so eloquently that women should be allowed the same freedoms as men. What could I do but bow to the force of your case?"

"So you only bedded me because of the strength of my rhetoric?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Nay, my lady. Mere rhetoric alone would not have swayed me. It was your unassailable logic. And..." He leans close to me once more, his lips on my hair. "Your voice. It is low, and warm, and enticing, and flows like honey. Have I told you how your voice can set fire to my blood? And your hair like spun gold beneath my hands, your skin like silk, the softness of your breasts, the curve of your hips, your long slender legs wrapped around mine, the touch of your lips on my chest, the way you move against me." He pauses for a moment. When he speaks again, the tone of his voice almost undoes me as he whispers, "The way you taste..."

Audience be damned, I let myself rest my head against his shoulder, clasping his hand in mine. Faramir pulls me closer to him. "I wanted you then, and I still want you now."

We are interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. I raise my head from Faramir's shoulder and look round, to see Cynefrid standing beside us. He gives us a knowing grin, then speaks.

"The folks here on the estate tell me it's traditional for the Lord and Lady to join in this next dance."

Faramir grins back at Cynefrid, a shared understanding between men who both know exactly what Faramir's thought processes were a few moments earlier. Then Faramir inclines his head in a gesture of assent.

"Of course, Cynefrid." He takes my hand and leads me into the centre of the clearing, and we take our place in the set. The dance is not as wild as the one which preceded it, but is lively nonetheless. And so we share several more dances together, until the hour is late, and the dancers begin to flag. Finally, Faramir whispers to me that we can now retire to our chambers.

"For, min leoflic, I would like to explore further our earlier conversation." He lets his hand drift across the small of my back, drawing me closer to him, and I feel the familiar flames of desire lick through my body.

~o~O~o~

In the middle of the night, I find myself awake. Faramir lies beside me, face down, cocooned in the bed clothes, his arm thrown over his face. In the faint light from the window, I see his dark hair spread across the pillow, and see the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder as he breathes. He sleeps deeply, not surprisingly, for his actions made good the promise implicit in his words earlier in the evening, and left both of us sated and happily exhausted.

Filtering through the window, I see beams of moonlight dance across the floor of the room, and somehow, the silvery light draws me from the bed to see what lies outside. I get up, and wrapping myself in a blanket, take a few steps to the stone sill beneath the window. The moon is high in the sky, and near full, and his light illuminates the scene before me. The wooded hill, with trees inky black, drops away sharply to the river, which winds, grey and silver, placid and calm on its way to the unseen seas. Beyond, the moonlit plain spreads towards the white mountains, whose snow-capped peaks gleam in the ethereal light.

As I stand, drinking in the scene, I hear a quiet rustling of bed clothes, then the soft pad of feet. Faramir comes up behind me, and holds me close, his chin nuzzling my shoulder, beard rough against my skin.

"It is beautiful beyond what I could have imagined," I whisper.

"Can you come to love this land, do you think?" he replies.

"I love its prince beyond measure, and already hold its people in esteem, and deem it beautiful – yes, in time, I think I will grow to love it. And we will make of it a peaceful and bountiful land, and we will raise children and watch them grow in this beautiful land of yours, this land which is now ours."

His hands fold together over my belly, and somehow in that moment I know with absolute certainty that this time his seed has taken root, and that over the coming months my belly will grow round beneath his hands, grow as surely as will our love for each other and our love of this land we now govern. I lean back into him, letting his comforting warmth and strength cradle me and fill me with a quiet joy.

~o~O~o~

THE END

~o~O~o~

AN Well, it feels like the end of an era, finally finishing this. First, I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Lady Peter, who has put in so many hours of hard work, and whose fantastic eye for a story and editing abilities have made this so much better than it would otherwise have been. I'd also like to thank the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for their helpful suggestions and encouragement, and Borys for many useful conversations about military strategy.

Also, thank you to all my fabulous reviewers, many of whom I've had long and interesting conversations with, and followers. It was so lovely to hear all your thoughts on the story as it unfolded.

One final author's note – in allowing Éowyn and Faramir a rather precipitate attitude to getting sexually involved, I've diverged from canon but perhaps not entirely from what actually took place in the Middle Ages. We tend to see Medieval mores filtered through Walter Scott and the Victorians. But to a large extent they were projecting their own moral values back onto the past. Written works from the period indicate things were different: the letters of Heloise and Abelard, and Abelard's Apologia (thank heavens for Faramir that my Éomer took a different attitude to Heloise's relatives); Boccaccio's Decameron (with a refreshingly pragmatic attitude of "I'm sure chastity is a wonderful virtue, but if you can't manage it, sex has its compensations"); Margueritte of Navarre's Heptameron(fascinating because it's so much darker than the Decameron – perhaps unsurprisingly, a man who can walk away from the consequences of sex in a world before contraception views the matter somewhat more lightheartedly than a woman who knows that women cannot escape from the consequences of pregnancy once it's happened); Chaucer's Wife of Bath.

There may be a sequel, but I think I need a bit of a rest first. However, there's plenty of other stuff out there: Sian's wonderful Captains and Pawns and Hot Springs, Medea Smyke's Hotspur and Steelsheen. And I have a light-hearted AU piece on the go, A Tight Space.