1. Sparks

The night was still dark in Ithilien, but the darkness had changed. Nazgul and tramping hordes of orcs no longer filled the shadows with menace. The thin fingernail of new moon sinking in the west smiled with cheerful waxing light rather than tainted green by Morgul-glow. The night even smelled fresher, of clean leaves, the wind from the sea and the distant rankness of a skunk. The sounds were new also: the scrape of flint and steel mixed with chuckling.

“You’ve got it! Now blow on the spark – oh, well, third time pays for all.”

“Faramir! You were supposed to be blocking the wind! Lean closer, so I can keep the spark alive once I strike it onto the tinder.”

Her husband chuckled again. She’d never known anyone who laughed so much as he did when they were together, although he was maddeningly serious in public.

“This close, love?” he asked, then bent completely across the little pile of tinder to kiss her as she looked up.

“That will do, I guess, although I’m not sure it’s the right kind of heat to cook with.” She took the opportunity to kiss him back anyway. She might not be any kind of campfire chef at all, but it didn’t mean that she lacked all skills. Then, grasping the flint tighter, she struck another spark. This time, as if inspired by their closeness, it flew right and a tiny flame bloomed among the dried grass and bark.

“Perfect!” Faramir shielded the new flame with his hands while Eowyn added larger twigs a piece at a time. When they began to crackle, he added larger pieces. Eowyn held her breath, dreading lest a sudden gust undo all her work on the little fire, but Faramir nodded confidently.

“Now you’re ready for the next step –” He rummaged in his pack, then pulled out a pan and a small wooden bowl. “Oatcakes! Once you can make open-fire oatcakes, you’ll have all the skills of a true Ranger of Ithilien.”

Mixing up the oatcakes was easy. Eowyn had often watched the cook make up almost the same recipe in her uncle’s hall, and Faramir handed each of the ingredients to her exactly when she needed them. It got more challenging when he handed her a jar of oil to grease the pan rather than the pat of butter used in Rohan. Once she’d worked the cork stopper out of the jar, she had to hold the pan level while she poured it in.

The muscles in her arm twinged at its weight. Although the healers had pronounced her arm completely mended more than a month ago, she had not yet had time to work with a sword and shield to restore the muscle she had lost. Setting up their new household and settling their people into Ithilien had taken all summer. The tasks were endless.

Faramir had found her overseeing the construction of the sheep paddock when he came to suggest this trip. It had taken three arguments, seven kisses and a dare to get her to let someone else finish the task.

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