The Sparring Match

The familiar clear ringing of steel on steel fills the air. Feet dart nimbly, whirling and twirling, lunge, parry, retreat, repeat. My blood is singing with fire and the primal joy of combat. The two of us are locked in a graceful, deadly dance, our blades flitting in the evening half-light like birds. Beads of sweat drip down my forehead, momentarily clouding my vision. Too late, I see a silver blur and an instant later feel a sharp sting of impact through my leather armor. Faramir’s eyes raise to meet mine, his lips open in a cry of victory -- but no sooner does he utter a sound than my own sword is pointed at his throat. I smile as I tie back my hair and sheath Erleitha. “Old trick of the Rohirrim,” I inform him. “Attack when your enemy least expects it -- when he believes he has already won.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“A true lady of Rohan.” I playfully smack his wrist.

“Once more?” he asks, suddenly earnest, an inscrutable look in his blue eyes -  eyes that draw me in and make me forget my suspicion, eyes like the ocean shallows, like the cool autumn sky, so open and clear and-

“Eowyn?” his voice snaps me out of my reverie.

“Yes, all right.” I reply, doing my best to hide the new flush in my cheeks - not from the exhilaration of exercise.

“On guard.” He shifts into a ready stance, knees bent, balanced on the balls of his feet. I follow suit, waiting for him to make the first move. Without warning, he feints to the left, drawing my attention away from the sword in his right hand. He swings it in a glittering arc toward my chest, and I only just manage to block it in time. He grins wryly at that, but I ignore it. Whirling around, I send a short but powerful jab into his side. Though the stiff leather softens the hit, I see he is winded. My years of training take over. Sensing my advantage, I instinctively follow up with a rapid flurry of blows, driving him to the very edge of the chalk-marked sparring circle. A growing number of citizens gather in the courtyard, many of them Faramir’s rangers. Some call out encouragement; others simply wish to see their captain bested by a lady.

He hunches over, holding up a hand for a brief moment of respite. For the first time, it occurs to me that I could have pushed him too far. These matches were more for fun than anything else, but he was Captain of the Guard, and had to go on regular patrols. I resist the urge to drop Erleitha and run to him, instead backing up a few steps and lowering my guard. Several seconds crawl past, and my worry grows.

“My lord?”

His body tenses, and before I have time to react, he leaps into the air, twisting so that he lands close behind me. With a flick of his wrist, he sends my sword clattering the the ground. There we stand, breathing hard, his body inches away from mine. Tension ripples between us, our every muscle taut. The spectators lean in, eager to see what happens next. Faramir is first to break the silence, speaking softly so that only I can hear.

“Old Gondorian trick. Attack when your enemy least expects it - when she is worried about your wellbeing.” His eyes twinkle with silent laughter. He raises his voice to project over the crowd. “Not easily is the Shieldmaiden of Rohan disarmed!” The people around us begin applauding enthusiastically. He leans closer, whispering in my ear. “Nor are her affections easily won.” My heart leaps at his words, and abandoning all modesty, I turn and kiss him fiercely. He is taken by surprise, but then wraps his arms around me protectively and kisses me back. Of course, this sends the men into even louder cheering, but neither of us notice. We are otherwise occupied.