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Éowyn pressed a hand to her forehead as she contemplated the pitiful state of the food stores. It was wonderful that so many great personages had come to honour her uncle and her brother and to grace the tables in Meduseld, but they did eat a lot. Especially their smallest guests. In fact, the cooks had almost downed tools on discovering that a third raid had been mounted on the provisions since the guests arrived. It seemed as if Éowyn would have to ask the Kings of Gondor and Rohan to expressly forbid their esquires from entering the kitchens.
Before she had a chance to sort out what they were going to serve for dinner, a flustered doorwarden arrived. He was stammering too much to be able to explain clearly why she should come with him, but it seemed it had something to do with Faramir. Her heart in her mouth – had he been hurt? A riding accident? A practice bout with her brother that had got a little too rough? – she made a hasty apology to the cooks and followed the guard to the main doors of the Great Hall.
There, she saw the Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, betrothed of the sister of the King of Rohan walking up the steps to Meduseld.
He was a little wet.
His boots were squelching at each step. His black Steward’s surcoat hung limply and was already beginning to crease, while it seemed there was a distinct possibility they were about to find out that there were some forms of decay that Mithril-thread was subject to. The design of the white tree also looked as if it had been enlivened with a few green touches in the form of pondweed. Faramir’s other clothes clung damply, while the dark waves of his hair were now slicked straight and plastered close against his skull.
He looked like he’d been… swimming? In his clothes?
Pippin was dancing around at Faramir’s side while Merry was swaggering along behind them, his hands behind his back and a rather smug smile on his face.
The younger hobbit’s light voice, made even higher by distress, came floating up to her. “Please, my Lord Steward, if there’s anything I can do…. I could run and fetch you a dry cloak, perhaps?”
My Lord Steward? Éowyn had only ever heard Pippin call Faramir that on extremely formal state occasions. All too easily, her beloved’s current state started to make some kind of sense and her mind began to race with ideas about the part Pippin had played.
“Stop fussing, Pippin, I’m fine, we’re almost there,” Faramir’s tone was quiet and patient. So quiet and patient given the circumstances that Éowyn knew he was concealing his true feelings.
Éowyn came a few steps down the stairs to meet him, searching for signs of other injuries, but it appeared it was only his dignity that had been put at risk. Not sure whether to scold or comfort him, she settled for asking bluntly. “What happened?”
Faramir shrugged and said, “There was something of a mishap….”
“It was all my fault,” Pippin interrupted. Even though they had stopped, he was still hopping restlessly from one foot to another, concern clouding his face. “I’m so sorry, my Lord.”
Faramir looked as if he was going to say something but Éowyn forestalled him. “My love, I’m sure any reprimand can wait. Come in by the fire and dry yourself off and then the two of you can tell me exactly what happened.”
As Éowyn ushered Faramir inside the hall, Pippin ran ahead. He dragged a bench over by the fire and Faramir sat down and began pulling his boots off. Pippin offered to help but Faramir waved him away.
“Shall I fetch some dry clothes for you?” Pippin asked, clearly at a loss as to what else he could do to put things right.
“You could,” Faramir said, his words muffled as he pulled the surcoat over his head, “but I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared for both sets of my formal clothes being rendered unfit at the same time.” Seeing Éowyn’s look of concern, Faramir added, “Your brother was a little careless when pouring the ale last night. I wouldn’t have bothered to mention it, except for the current state of affairs…”
“Then it is up to Rohan to set the matter aright,” Éowyn said. She fixed Faramir with a stern look. “While you explain yourself.” She beckoned over the doorwarden, who was still hovering nervously in the background, and murmured something in his ear. The guard seemed somewhat surprised but bowed and disappeared through of a door towards the rear of the hall that led to the Royal Family’s private quarters.
Éowyn turned back to Faramir. “So, I know how one half of your wardrobe was ruined. Am I to guess what happened to the other half?”
“Well, it started when I got up this morning and found a Knight of the City and a Knight of the Mark having breakfast together,” Faramir said, his tone still grave and thoughtful.
“Second breakfast,” Merry put in helpfully. Éowyn looked around and saw he had followed them inside and was now filching an apple out of a bowl sitting on one of the sidetables. Do they never stop eating? she wondered. As she turned back towards Faramir and Pippin, she caught Pippin glaring at his cousin and mouthing Shut up, clearly cross that Merry had dared to correct Faramir. Merry’s relative indifference to Faramir’s plight confirmed Éowyn’s earlier suspicions: Pippin was the one responsible – or who at least felt responsible – for her beloved’s current state.
“Yes, second breakfast. Of course,” Faramir said, acknowledging Merry with a nod. “Well, I was myself feeling a little… off-colour. Your brother was most insistent last night on me drinking to your future happiness with him. Well, that’s what it started as. I can’t quite remember what we were drinking to by the end. My good squire here noticed that I was feeling a little less than sprightly this morning and was concerned for my well-being. He suggested we go for a walk in the fresh air.”
Faramir remembered how he had felt less bilious when they got outside. But the bright sun in his eyes and the overpowering smell of horse everywhere had done nothing for his headache. He had decided to head down the hill to find a cool and shady place to sit by the side of the stream.
“We went down to the river,” he told Éowyn as he bent down and began peeling off his socks. “I thought it might make me feel better. I was just looking round for a nice quiet spot under the willows when I saw Pippin and Merry wading out into the water.”
He handed the first damp sock to Pippin with a smile and said, “You know, I quite envy you hobbits not wearing shoes and being able to splash about without a second thought. The thought of cool water running over my toes seemed rather attractive at that point and I was just wondering whether it would be beneath my dignity to take off my boots and go for a paddle myself….”
Faramir paused and looked down at himself and laughed.
“Anyway,” he continued, bending down to tackle the other sock, “I was just thinking about that when I noticed Pippin picking up some stones out of the stream. I didn’t realise what he was doing at first, then he started shying them at some birds on the far bank. And you know I would not have wild beasts slain needlessly.”
He handed Pippin the second sock. The hobbit blushed and stammered, “I was just trying to scare them away. They were eating those red berries. You know, the ones we had at the feast yesterday. I thought we could maybe go and pick some later.”
“Well,” Faramir said, bowing his head in grave acknowledgement, “I misunderstood your intentions and it seems it is I who owes you an apology.”
“That’s not necessary, my Lord,” Pippin said, hurriedly. He clearly felt Faramir had already paid too high a price for his error.
Faramir looked back at Éowyn and began to unlace the cuffs of his under-tunic as he continued his story. “In any event, I called out to Pippin to stop, and reached out to take his arm before he could finish throwing the next stone. I guess my footing wasn’t very good, and I was leaning out across the stream to reach him, and, well, Pippin’s stronger than he looks! Next thing I knew, I was face down in two feet of river.”
Faramir remembered the icy shock of the water that flowed down from its chill springs in the White Mountains, and how his heart almost felt like it had stopped, before it began thundering again. He had felt the blood pulsing through his body, proof of the life that beat so strongly within him, as he had floundered for a moment, before rolling over, sitting up and taking a gulp of air. Then Pippin had been thumping him hard between the shoulders, which had been more of a hindrance than a help – although nothing would ever make him tell the anxious hobbit that.
He had sat in the stream, pushing his sodden hair back from his face, blinking water out of his eyes and spitting what seemed like half the pond-weed in the river out of his mouth, with the hot sun already starting to warm him.
As he had walked back up the hill to Meduseld, he had seen the people of Edoras pause in their tasks and stare. Faramir suspected he was in the process of tarnishing his own reputation amongst the Rohirrim as a suitable husband for the White Lady quite as effectively as she had offended the court of Gondor’s notions of an appropriate bride for the Steward. The thought that were now truly a match in every particular only fed the laughter bubbling up inside him. Yet it seemed poor Pippin had mistaken his attempts to control his mirth for anger.
Now, he realised, Pippin was apologising again. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” he was saying, twisting the damp socks between his fingers.
“Don’t be, Pip.” Faramir smiled and reached out a hand and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not the first time I’ve been wet and I’m sure it won’t be the last. And it certainly helped cure my sore head!”
“It did?” Pippin’s expression lightened a little. “That’s good.”
Before either of them could say more, there was a polite cough. Éowyn looked up and saw that the doorwarden had returned with the items she had requested. She rested her hand briefly on Faramir’s shoulder as she passed behind him and crossed the hall to take the bundle from the guard. She turned back towards Faramir, aware that Pippin had come with her and was asking the doorwarden something, but she was too distracted by the sight before her to hear his words.
Faramir was stripping off his undertunic. Éowyn was enough used to half-naked riders to think she would be indifferent. Now, she discovered, you could feel something else entirely when the half-naked man was the one you were in love with.
His latest wound still showed as puckered red skin on his shoulder, but there were many other faint lines traced across his lean muscles, telling of old battles, old hurts. She moved closer, fascinated by the evidence of her beloved’s valour written as clearly on his skin as she had once read it in his eyes.
He turned and smiled down at her. His hands covered hers as he moved to take the tunic from the pile of clothes she held, and she shivered at his touch. His eyes went wide and dark as he read the meaning of her reaction and saw the look in her eyes. For a long moment, neither of them stirred, then their mutual absorption was interrupted by a small voice and a hand tugging on Faramir’s arm.
“My Lord, I’ve found you a cloth to dry your hair.”
They both looked down. Pippin was standing proffering a square of material. Éowyn felt a flush rising up her face as she recollected where they were, while Faramir blinked as if somewhat startled. They looked back at each other for a brief confirmation of the feelings flashing between them, then Faramir wisely stepped away, taking the tunic with him and shrugging it over his shoulders before holding his hand out to Pippin for the cloth.
Éowyn put the rest of the clothes down on the end of the bench and then turned away and busied herself at one of the side tables. After a few minutes, she felt Faramir approach and speak her name.
She turned and looked him over. “That colour suits you,” she said, reaching out to touch the rich, sage-green material. She was filled with wonder that it should match his darker colouring as much as it had once complimented a fair complexion and flaxen hair.
Faramir lifted his arm and looked more closely at the rich embroidery. “It’s beautiful work,” he said, seeing how the thread swirled to make stylised horses galloping, galloping around the wrists.
“It was my cousin’s.”
Éowyn’s voice caught in her throat and Faramir looked up quickly. He reached out and laid a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He put his other hand around her waist and gently drew her towards him and leant his forehead against hers. He whispered, “You will soon have new cousins. I know it’s not the quite same, but you are not alone…” He pulled away a little and gave her a tentative smile and she rewarded him after a moment with a slightly unsteady one in return. Then he broke into a wicked grin, “Mind you, if the way Thiri is making sheep’s eyes at your brother is any indication, I think you’ll also have a new sister before long!”
Éowyn laughed and Faramir stroked the side of her face with his thumb. It was wonderful to have her in his arms again, to be this close. Since that first, blazing kiss on the battlements, he had been careful never to overstep the bounds of what the court deemed was acceptable behaviour. Tongues had wagged enough at the suitability of his choice of bride, her exploits in battle, and the intemperance of her nature. Wanting to protect her from further gossip, Faramir had made sure during their time together in the White City that nothing untowards could be read into even so simple a gesture as taking her hand. When she had left with her brother to see to the re-ordering of Rohan, he had truly learnt to miss her. And now, in the more relaxed court of Edoras, as he breathed in her scent and felt her warmth so close, he was learning to regret the wasted time.
He lost his smile as he leant back in and touched his lips to hers. Now he had the taste of her too, as she returned the kiss, her hand tightening its grip on his arm. He felt the blood drumming in his ears as he slid his arm around her to press her closer and deepen the kiss. The world dropped away as he began to make up for lost opportunities.
Behind him, he was dimly aware of Pippin’s voice saying “Come on, Merry! Stop staring at them.”
The world came back again as Faramir realised that while he very much wanted to go on kissing Éowyn, this was probably not the ideal place to be doing it. He pulled away from her gently. “Later,” he whispered, sealing the promise with a smile.
It was another fine summer morning in Edoras. As usual, the hobbits were enthusiastically tackling breakfast when Faramir arrived in the Great Hall and joined them. He smiled at Éowyn as she came over and personally served him.
As he dug his spoon into the pottage, he addressed the hobbit sitting next to him. “Pippin. Your Lord Steward has need of your services as a loyal Knight of the City,” he announced in a serious tone.
“Anything, sir,” Pippin said nervously. Although he knew Faramir had forgiven him for what had happened yesterday, he was still keen to make up for his error.
Faramir leaned a little closer to Pippin but kept his eyes on Éowyn as she moved around the table. In the same grave tones he said, “I was rather hoping you could find another stream to dunk me in today.”
Pippin looked at Faramir in confusion. He wanted to get wet again? Then he noticed that Faramir was trying very hard not to laugh and he saw the way the Prince’s eyes were filled with both tender love and a touch of mischief as he looked at Éowyn. The White Lady was blushing faintly but returning his look with one of equally frank interest and delight.
“Ah,” Pippin said, a grin breaking out across his face, “I’ll see if I can oblige, sir.”