A/N: I remember writing this a while ago, and I'm not quite sure why I didn't post it. I suppose I wasn't happy with it? Anyway, I very much am now. Just a little bit of fluff for anyone who needs it. :D

Disclaimer: -sings- WOULDN'T IT BE NICE—

Hammock

Éowyn wiped her brow as she stepped out of the whipping wind and bright sun into the cool, dark entrance of her home in Ithilien. Her hair was pulled back into a single long braid which was presently so straying and tangled that it was barely recognizable as such. In addition, her attire was clearly that of a man's, quite plain and certainly too large for her at that. Those who didn't know better would never have guessed that she was the Lady of the house and wife to the Prince. She grinned and strode happily in the direction of her rooms. Éowyn generally tried to look presentable as a proper lady should, but she was a proper lady of Rohan and there were some exceptions.

Riding out on a swift horse simply for the pleasure of feeling the wind on her face and the strength of the creature beneath her was one of them.

A strange sound met her ears the moment she set foot in her and her husband's bedchamber. A flapping sound, like that of a standard in the wind. And it certainly was windy that day. But the sound had come from, or seemed to have come from, the large balcony just beyond the chamber and as far as she could remember there weren't any flags out there.

She heard a different sound now, a more usual one. It was some one saying "Ow" and that some one was her husband.

"Faramir?" she called, wandering out through the doorway. She found him hunched over and glaring at his thumb, his hair flying around in the wind. She smiled as she always smiled when she saw him, but it left her face once more as she spotted a new addition to the balcony.

"Faramir, what is that?" she asked sternly. Her husband looked up, surprised by her presence since he apparently had been too concerned with his injury to notice her.

"I hurt my thumb," he replied, which was not at all an answer to her question. He shook his hand a few times before looking up to grin at her. She narrowed her eyes.

"Faramir…"

"Oh, you mean this?" he beamed at her and gestured behind him. "It's a hammock."

And so it was. Flapping rather crazily in the wind was a large, rope hammock secured in its position a few feet in the air by two large posts hammered deeply into the wooden floor. She stared at it.

"I can see that," she said, "but why is it there?"

"I made it," Faramir informed her proudly.

"May I ask why?"

"So we can lay on it."

Éowyn shook her head and sighed. Only my husband, she thought. Only Faramir could manage to be the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien and find the time to do something like make a hammock. She looked into his laughing eyes for a while, wondering if there was some ulterior motive to the creation of the hammock or if he was simply acting more eccentric than usual. He shrugged at her finally, and turned to the hammock. Gingerly he sat down upon it, causing it to stop flapping about almost instantly. The poles creaked as it supported his weight and Éowyn winced to see one of the many knots that made up the entire structure come undone. Once settled, Faramir grinned at her triumphantly and waved for her to join him.

"No thank you," she said firmly.

"Come now, my love," laughed Faramir, "you would let it go to waste after I worked so hard on it? Come sit beside me!"

She shook her head and took a defensive step back. Faramir's voice grew even more mirthful.

"Don't tell me the proud Lady Éowyn, slayer of Darkness itself, is afraid of a little old hammock!"

"I am not afraid of hammocks," she seethed, "I just don't happen to like them."

"Hmm… I see. Is there any reason for that, I wonder?"

He was teasing her, and at the moment Éowyn was not in the mood to be teased.

"No," she said darkly.

Faramir stood up once more and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He looked at her with eyes full of sincerity, the playful smirk completely erased from his features. Éowyn held her ground, but then his lower lip began to jut out ever so slightly… and suddenly she'd lost the battle.

"Éomer made one when we were very young," she found herself saying, "Two or three years after we first went to live with my uncle. It was very high off the ground, I remember, and not at all as sturdy as it should have been. And he said 'Come, Éowyn! Come sit on the hammock! It will be fun!' So naturally I trusted him. I leapt right on the hammock with as much enthusiasm as any child would."

"And?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "And I tumbled right off. I fell off the side and injured my wrist; I couldn't ride for weeks! Seconds later the whole thing collapsed leaving Éomer with a sore backside for quite some time." She stopped, then added as an afterthought, "And he deserved it."

"So that's the story? You don't want to sit on this hammock because you happened to fall off one years and years ago?" Faramir shook his head in disbelief that his brave, passionate wife could be daunted by something so trivial.

"Yes."

He sighed, and lifted his hand from her shoulder only to replace it with a hold on her hand. Gently, he began to pull her toward him and toward the hammock.

"Come on, Éowyn," he said, "You can trust me."

Éowyn froze and dug her heels into the floor. "That's what my brother said," she scolded. "Really, Faramir, I don't want to—gah!"

In the midst of her statement her husband had quite literally swept her off her feet and into his arms. He laughed as she began to struggle. She trashed about as best as she could in his tight grip. Éowyn was a formidable opponent in battle to be sure, but Faramir was physically stronger than she was. And of course she didn't actually want to hurt him, as much as her instinct told her to do anything to get out of the situation.

Within moments she was dropped ungracefully onto the contraption, causing the poles to creak once more and the knots to pull taught. Before she could even consider getting off, Faramir had sat right beside her. The hammock sunk even lower, but still held them above the ground. Faramir sighed and laid back, apparently quite comfortable.

Éowyn's face was white. She clutched her husband's arm in one hand and the side of the hammock in the other and apparently was now too frightened to even begin to get off.

The wind was just strong enough to push them lightly back and forth every once and a while. It was a beautiful day out in general; a beautiful day to lie around outside for a while next to a loved one.

"Éowyn," Faramir began softly, for he was beginning to lose the feeling in his arm. "You can let go now. I think we're safe."

Gingerly she removed her grip from his arm and crossed both of hers tightly on her chest. Faramir laughed and swung his now free arm over her shoulders.

"See? Isn't this nice?"

Éowyn sighed and some of the tension left her body. "I suppose so," she admitted, unclenching her teeth at last.

And so the two of them lay comfortably on the hammock for a time. The wind was relentless in rocking them gently. After a while, Éowyn appeared to fall asleep, curled slightly against her husband's body. He smiled at her. She looked absolutely filthy, he realized. The clothes she wore were his, and covered in dust and even mud. The sun glinted off her golden hair that was so wind-blown it would no doubt take hours to brush out again. And yet she looked so peaceful, like a sleeping child after playing outside for hours. And so beautiful too…

He smiled as he felt himself begin to drift off as well. It had been a perfect day, and building a hammock had been a good idea after all. It was a nice gesture on Éomer's part to have shared that old story with him the last time they had met…

Suddenly he was looking directly into a pair of determined grey eyes, a certain mischievous twinkle in them alerting him to danger.

"Éowyn, what—"

A quick shove sent him rolling right off the hammock and onto the hard floor before he could finish his sentence. He stood up, rubbing his backside and wincing, only to find that his wife stretched out once more, apparently having been lulled back to sleep by the wind and her own satisfaction. A smile played across her lips and it matched his own.