By: Dana
Summary: Observations.
Characters: Boromir, Eomer, Eowyn
Pairings: Boromir/Eomer, Boromir/Eowyn implied
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash, het implied
Author's Notes: Written for Elly's birthday.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

It isn't often that Eowyn is given a chance to spend time with Boromir of Gondor. She thinks that it is her uncle and his father's fault - because they were friends once, at least, that is what she heard Hama said, but responsibility, and power, can sour even the strongest of friendships and loves.

That shouldn't matter, though, because Boromir likes her brother better (why would he like a silly girl?), because they ride out in the morning, to hunt and to spar, and they often aren't back until it's dark. She envies that, and she would show them a thing or two, but she is too busy waiting on her uncle and attending to her own duties to have that time.

She doesn't mind it - really, she doesn't mind - but she wishes for more.

But Boromir and Eomer - they're lucky, and she wonders if their friendship will be so strong. Boromir is the Steward's heir, but Eomer will only be a Marshall of the Mark. It isn't quite the same as two men who would be kings, and Eowyn hopes that their friendship will last.

If anything, that means that maybe she'll have more time to see Boromir, because as it is now, it isn't often that she is given a chance.

"How fares the White City?" Eowyn asks. Boromir looks up from where she has found him in the stables, sitting in one corner, on an old and worn bench. His own saddle sits over his lap. He grins, and Eowyn smiles back, stepping from around the corner.

"You should see it one day for yourself," he says.

"I should," she replies, and she steps forward, clasping her hands in front of her long skirts. "Well, I should say, instead, I will." She grins, and she stops, and the lantern light flickers. Beneath her slippers, the ground is hard and dirty, and there is straw scattered. In the lantern light, it flickers softly like dull and faded gold.

She lifts her gaze, and Boromir has lowered his, rubbing a smooth piece of cloth over leather. She bites her lips, and steps forward, feeling much like a child, which is odd and just wrong, since she'll soon be turning eighteen. She wishes that she'd been born a lad, or that Eomer had been the one to be born a girl. That would teach him a thing or two. But then, no matter what, that was a matter that was far from being even remotely in her control.

He looks up again, frowning, and there is concern in his grey eyes when he sees that she is standing there still. "Lady Eowyn, is there some problem that I should know of, and if there is, what can I do to help." He sets the saddle and the polishing cloth aside, and he rises to his feet. He's much taller than even her brother, and for some reason that makes her feel smug.

"No," she says, "there is nothing wrong. But I was hoping that my brother had made you welcome here. I come to find you both, and yet I find only you here, alone and sitting in the stables, with only your saddle to polish." She lifts her gaze, feeling suddenly bold.

"I should be the one asking you if there is a problem, my lord."

Boromir's lips twitch and he grins. "Nothing so terrible that you should worry, my lady."

"Very well," and she's grinning, too. But she tilts her head, and her gaze is sly. "But there is a problem, and I imagine that it must include my brother."

"Shrewd of you to guess, my lady," he says. "But I will not say if you are wrong or right."

"I wager I am right," she says, and he turns and strides from the corner. She follows after, reaching for a lantern, and lifts her skirts slightly with one hand as she quickens her pace to catch up with his much longer stride. "Your silence is more affirmation than even the most bitter denial," Eowyn urges. "Was there a disagreement? An argument, perhaps." When he is silent, and they pass through the great doors and into the cool night air, the lantern light spreading out soft and orange-gold, she asks again.

"Was there a disagreement, my lord?"

"You could call it that, yes."

Eowyn stops, and Boromir turns back. Spreading out, the hilltop city is quiet in the early evening dim. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw is set in a firm, grin line. She steps forward, and the lantern lights his eyes.

"My brother has a big head, my lord, and he is often called a fool."

Boromir's lips spread wide in a grin. "You should not worry yourself, my lady."

"But my brother - " she starts, words stopping when Boromir's fingers brush against skin. Rough fingertips, this hand is a warrior's hand, and she gasps softly (and she doesn't know why), as his fingers slide back against her blush-stained cheek, push back into her hair, and gently tangle. "My lord," she says, and her tongue feels heavy and thick. He is close, too close, and Eowyn lifts her chin. If she were only taller, then she would be able to look him straight in the eye.

But she can't, not like her brother would, and Boromir's hand is warm, his grip is firm, and the smile on his lips seems strange. "You should not worry yourself, Eowyn," he softly says, leaning close and kissing her on the brow. His lips are warm, too, and softer than she'd have thought. But she hadn't thought of it, had she? His beard is softer, too, and it tickles even as it scratches bare skin.

He turns, and his hand slips free, and the hair that he had held falls limply down over her shoulder at her side. The lantern light was not strong enough, not against the dark of night, though the stars in the sky seemed brighter as Boromir vanished, an indistinct form sinking into shadow and gloom and the gathering night.

There is a soft grey light in the east; morning has come at last, and the sun rises up slowly from the confines of sleep. The air is cool and still and mist spills down the grand front steps of Meduseld like a river of white.

"You're up early this day, Boromir."

"I couldn't sleep."

Eomer nods, and turns to look into the east. Boromir turns, and follows the long line of Eomer's gaze. "I could say the same of you," Boromir says, and catches the sharp and stray edge of Eomer's grin. How careless of him, really, but Boromir finds that he does not mind.

"You are not the only one who couldn't sleep."

Boromir nods, and Eomer turns back. His gaze is drawn in concern, and the air is thick and still between them. The day had ended with bitter words still clinging to Eomer's tongue, and Boromir isn't sure of their disagreement, or of what it was that they truly disagreed.

No, he knows it, knows what it is and knows what it was, but that does not mean that he wants to admit it, to Eomer, especially, or even to himself. Wh t matters is that there had almost been blows between them, and now, the morning after, the air tastes stale.

"I did not mean it," Eomer says, and that almost-apology seems a strange and foreign thing. "I hope you do not think that I meant what I said."

"Worry not, Eomer," Boromir says. He is looking to the east, and his eyes seem to catch and reflect back a shadow of restless worry. There is darkness stirring, and they have both heard rumour that great mountain of fire burns. Eomer turns from Boromir, though, and looks instead into the west. The daylight is coming slowly, eating at the darkness, but where they stand in the shadows of the Golden Hall, the morning gloom is still thick and chilled.

"I don't worry," Eomer says. "Though, I admit it, I was concerned. Eowyn came to you, didn't she? Sticking her nose where it's not needed, thinking that she could fix this, like it was just another piece of needlework to be mangled." Boromir almost laughs, and Eomer lifts his gaze, grinning. "My sister has no fine hand when it comes to needle and thread."

Boromir does laugh, then, and he nods. "I find that her hand seems steady enough."

He steps closer, and his hand curves over Eomer's shoulder. Eomer turns to look at him, and his eyes are impossibly dark, lighting only when sunlight flashes, swift and sudden, over the eaves. "Will you ride out with me, Boromir?"

Eomer nods. "It would be an honour, friend."

Eowyn walks out into the chill light of a new day, her hair tied back in a loose bun (though there are stray strands that fall, curving at her cheeks), dressed in a lad's long trousers, tunic and vest. Down she goes, taking the broad steps two at a time, and Hama laughs as he greets her.

The wind picks up, and the green and white banners snap against the wind and the cold. She goes to the stables, and saddles her own mare (a dapple grey, with sharp, bright eyes), and Eowyn leads Leofa out into the day. The sun is bright, though it does little to warm, and Eowyn pulls on a pair of long, soft gloves as she walks the slope of the road towards the distant gates, leading Leofa by the reins.

When she is in sight of the watch towers, she mounts, waving at the guards as she pulls on Leofa's reins. With a sharp whistle and a click of her tongue, Leofa is moving, and Eowyn is, too, and Leofa's hooves beat suddenly hard against the damp ground.

Down the sloping road, out through the opened gates, and onto to the plains. She can already taste the wind - and it pounds in her ears and rushes in her blood and it lifts her up high until she feels that even the sky is beneath her.

Sometimes, she rides out, and she doesn't come back until the morning; Eowyn feels that this will be such a day.

The river runs shallow, here, cold and sharp as ice, and when Boromir splashes his face, the water stings. The sun has passed the midway point, and it has begun its long and slow descent into the west. He sits there, crouching, watching Eomer; Eomer, who stands across the ford, looking northwards towards the mountains.

He rises, wiping his hands off on his trousers, and he crosses where the water runs the most shallow, nothing but a light trickle of water moving over the smooth bed of the river, sand and stone. Eomer turns, and nods, then looks back to the foggy heights of the mountains, his face grim and still in thought. "My cousin and his ored fought a patrol of orcs here not three weeks past. We would be made to believe that it was no concentrated effort, but I know better than that."

It is hard to look at Eomer, right then, because Boromir knows that he is too young for such a life; but he lives a life that is already bound to battle and to blood.

"War will come, whether it is wanted or not."

"And what does Gondor think?"

"I have not my father's confidences, Eomer. But if the time comes, if there is need, I only hope that I will be there fighting at your side."

Eomer's face (and it is too young) lights w th what can only be called delight. "What a battle that would be," Eomer says, and he clasps Boromir's hand and shoulder. "None could stand before you, Boromir."

The breeze stirs, cool and sharp, and Eomer is looking right into Boromir's eyes. He parts his lips, wetting them, and everything else that Boromir wants he can taste, right there, on the tip of his tongue. "It would be an honour."

"And mine, too." Eomer's reply is eager, and his eyes are bright, but shadowed, which is a strange enough thing. Boromir reaches and touches the stubble on Eomer's cheek.

"I hope that that time is long coming," he says and then, in that same breath, "Eomer," when Eomer's mouth, opened wide, covers his own.

They had kissed like this before, and that was at least one reason why they had almost fought, and Boromir thinks that he should push away (because he pushed away before, so he should be able to do it now), but he doesn't, feeling the smooth-yet-hard shape of Eomer's mouth, instead, as it works against his own.

"Eomer," he groans, drawing back. Eomer's head is only tilted slightly, because they are nearly the same height, and he can look right into Boromir's eyes as he grips Boromir's forearm and squeezes. "We shouldn't - "

"But we should," Eomer intercedes.

"What good will this bring?"

"Little more than a moment's relief, I fear," Eomer says, and he is too old for being too young. His hand is firm, though his touch is light. "You are too stubborn for your own good, Boromir. Give us this, both. I wouldn't argue with you again."

"But - we shouldn't, Eomer, we shouldn't," Boromir gasps, even as Eomer is moving, and then Eomer is kissing him again. He is wearing a vest over his heavy tunic, and he can feel Eomer's hands sliding down his sides. Boromir groans, and presses into Eomer. What good will this bring? Little. But it is no ill omen, and Boromir could lose himself in this moment's relief.

"We will."

"Yes."

Eomer lets Boromir push him to the hard ground, and pushes Boromir back into their kiss.

The river runs shallow, here, cold and sharp as ice, and Leofa splashes across it, hitting the riverbed and smooth, hard stone. On the ground, Eowyn sees signs of her brother and Boromir's passing, and, she wonders, something more.

But she follows them southwards along the river, as it broadens, and deepens, as the sun sinks further into the west. There is a chill in the air, it stings her lungs. The night is coming, and the air is still.

She spies them, at least, she spies a fire, and she urges Leofa on. Leofa whinnies, and flicks her ears, and Eowyn soothes a hand over the horse's head, whispering right into her ear. Clump, clump, and they see her before she sees them; it is Eomer who rises up, first, and he grins and laughs as she rides into the red-gold light of the fire.

"The hunter has taken her time."

"But I found you, brother, and that is what matters."

"You did," Eomer admits, and Boromir has risen to his feet. There is a spit over the fire, and Eowyn sees where their horses have been tethered. "Always interrupting my fun," he chides, and Eowyn laughs as she hops down from the saddle.

"It isn't fair that you steal him away," Eowyn says, and she goes to greet Boromir, leaving Eomer with a wounded look on his way. "It isn't that I steal him, sister," he says, "only that he wishes to be stolen."

"Is that truth, my lord?" she asks, and Boromir takes her hands. She revels in the rough feel of his skin, and smiles in delight as she looks up at him, right into his eyes. "I hope that it's not."

"It isn't, my lady," Boromir replies, and she turns, looking at Eomer, who sits crouched at the fire, now; who doesn't look back.

"My brother - whatever it was, has it cleared?" she softly asks.

"It has," Boromir says, and when Eowyn looks back at him, she isn't sure what has passed between them, only that she envies it, and wants it, and needs it, too, like she needs to breathe.

"Let me see to Leofa," she says, thinking distantly of her duties, and Boromir nods and kisses the back of her hand, before turning from her and joining Eomer at the fire. She turns, and looks after them, and something hot and needy coils in the depths of her stomach.

She has never named such want, but she can't help but name it, now.

Eowyn does see to Leofa, seeing that she is fed, and watered, and then she leaves the mare tethered with her brother and Boromir's horses. She stands there, and then she looks at Boromir, and Eomer, and she reaches back and unties her hair, shaking it gently out, letting it fall down over her shoulders. Then, and only then, she goes and joins them at the fire.

There is still time.

One day, Eowyn will turn to Faramir, and she will see his brother's ghost flicker in Faramir's face: his grey eyes, his smile, and even the curve of his nose; and she will love him more for having known Boromir the time that she did.

(Sometimes, and she knows that she'll never know, she wonders if Boromir ever saw her brother's face in hers.)