"You're a WHAT?" In the attempt not to drop his tankard of ale, Éomer banged it abruptly onto the table. The end result was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid: beer sloshed across the wood and landed in his lap.

Faramir dropped his gaze and seemed to become totally absorbed in the spreading pool of liquid. Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that Éothain's mouth had fallen open. Only Elfhelm seemed relatively unaffected; the older man, as was his wont, appeared to be biding his own council.

"What? How? Are you sure?"

Faramir looked up, brushing his dark hair back from his face. A sudden flash of annoyance crossed his face, reminding Éomer of his expression as the two of them had sparred earlier. The way the man fought – with determination, single mindedness, and a kind of sharply focussed aggression – that had left Éomer with no doubts about his manliness. But now… Éomer's train of thought was cut off by Faramir's voice.

"Of course I'm sure. It's not exactly the sort of thing one is mistaken about in oneself." His voice was filled with irritation.

"But… you're meant to be marrying my sister in three days time," Éomer said, his voice almost faint with shock.

"I don't see why you should think it to be such a problem," the Gondorian replied, still sounding distinctly testy.

"But… How will you know how to… well… To go on?"

"I am acquainted with the theory. How hard can it be?"

There was a thud from somewhere to Éomer's left as Éothain let his head fall onto the table. The captain of Éomer's Royal Guard gave a groan of disbelief. It crossed the young king's mind to join his captain in banging his head against the wooden boards – it might, after all, clear it, or possibly even reveal this whole conversation to be some sort of drunken flight of fancy. Instead he made do with asking, "But how… err… why? Why would you? Or rather, why would you not?"

"Well, it's not that uncommon in my country," Faramir said, somewhat defensively.

Éothain looked up, and, it would seem, decided at long last to join the conversation. He'd had slightly more ale than the others, and his words came out rather slurred. "Bugger me. I'd heard some weird things about you Stoninglanders, but that's just… What, you mean, there's lots of you are… are..." His voice petered out. He couldn't bring himself to voice the word.

Faramir gave a snort of irritation. "Yes, there are quite a lot of us. Who choose to remain so until we marry. You can say the word you know. It's not catching… after all it's something of a one-way process, you can't go backwards." He sat up, and seized the tankard in front of him, raised it to his lips, and drained it in one draught. He brought it back down onto the table with a clatter, and said, somewhat belligerently, "Yes, I am a virgin. So?"

~o~O~o~

Faramir stared dolefully at his breakfast. He could have sworn the breakfast (some sort of smoked fish) was staring back at him, equally dolefully. At least it had the excuse of being dead; Faramir merely felt close to death. His head ached as though it had a dwarven axe embedded in it. His throat felt as though he had spent the previous evening imbibing gravel rather than ale. His stomach contents threatened to make a bid for freedom at any moment (encouraged by the fish's uncompromising glare). But worst of all, his memory was, unfortunately, entirely unimpaired by the previous night's activities.

Éothain had undoubtedly contributed the greatest part of the recollections he wished he didn't have. After the captain's initial shock, he had decided to appoint himself responsible for Faramir's belated education. It wasn't long before Éomer (muttering "That's my bloody sister you're talking about") had to excuse himself to visit the latrine. Éothain was undaunted. He imparted a veritable treasure trove of knowledge surely sufficient to make a tart blush. Or a midwife. Or possibly both. It certainly made Faramir blush just to remember it.

Though the scholar within (in truth, never far from the surface) had to admit the man had been a mine of information, however crudely that information had been expressed. For instance, who would have guessed that the mere act of thrusting in and out would not be sufficient? That (apparently well hidden – though Éothain had given such detailed instructions that Faramir could only heave a sigh of relief that he'd stopped short of drawing a map), the key to a woman's pleasure lay not in her quim (Faramir's vocabulary had also been considerably expanded) but in a mysterious part Éothain variously described as "her button" and "her pearl". The captain of the guard had been in the midst of making various increasingly rude jokes about "pearls beyond price" when Éomer had returned and threatened to knock his block off if he didn't change the subject.

Not that the change of subject had been any improvement. Éomer had then cross-examined Faramir at great length to check whether he had at any time engaged in "the way of the warrior" and to ascertain whether Faramir's lack of experience with women was in fact due to a concomitant surfeit of experience with men. Faramir had kept his temper, but only just. He had had to remind himself at frequent intervals that Éowyn would kill him for brawling with her brother on the eve of their wedding, and that in the unlikely event that she didn't get to him first, Aragorn would kill him for causing a diplomatic incident by brawling with the king of their closest ally.

Suddenly, Faramir's attention was brought back to the present by a tall, rangy figure leaning over beside him and setting two bowls of steaming porridge on the table, before sitting down on the bench and swinging long legs over so that he came to rest beside the Gondorian.

"I thought kippers were probably more than you could handle after last night. This should go down nice and bland. Eat, man, then we'll go and get a bit of fresh air." Elfhelm shoved one of the bowls in front of Faramir, deftly knocking the smoked fish to one side, where it continued to stare upwards with something of a reproachful air. The Marshal ate in silence as Faramir toyed with his spoon. Eventually the younger man could bear the silence no longer.

"I suppose you're going to offer me advice too, once you've told me how peculiar and possibly unmanly I am." Faramir sounded quite uncharacteristically grumpy. Elfhelm put it down to the hangover.

"I think you got quite enough advice from Éothain last night." At least that response elicited a wry smile. "Actually I'm sure the two of you will do just fine. After all, back in the day Hilde and I managed to work it out for ourselves – worked it out quite well – in fact..." Elfhelm's eyes misted over in fond recollection… "very well indeed."

Faramir's head snapped up in surprise. The sudden movement obviously wasn't a good idea, for he then gave a bit of a groan and let his head fall back into his hands.

"Of course we were only fifteen when we started walking out together, and I have to admit, despite the best efforts of our parents, we didn't wait for the wedding. Though I suppose they must take some of the blame, for they tried to make us wait three years. That was never going to happen! Mind you, they caught us in the end – I brought her home with blueberry stains all up the back of her dress." Elfhelm gave another fond smile at the reminiscence. "Béma, they gave us hell for that. But they brought the wedding forward too... Just as well."

Faramir actually managed to chuckle at this. Elfhelm took this as an invitation to continue.

"Though of course we were just teenagers. I can't help wondering, if you don't mind me asking, why a man of your age wouldn't..."

Faramir searched Elfhelm's face for any hint that the older man might be making fun of him, but saw only an open, friendly, if somewhat puzzled look.

"It's a religious thing," he said. Seeing Elfhelm's confused frown he added, "Surely you understand that – you Rohirrim seem to set great store by your gods."

"Well, yes, but that's giving thanks to them for bringing the harvest in, for protecting us in battle, for looking after our households. And in return they expect us to do the right rituals, and deal honestly with each other, and look after widows and orphans and those who've fallen on hard times. They don't expect a man to give up on shagging."

Faramir gave another grin at this. "Ah, maybe I chose the wrong set of gods. Not that the Valar are exactly gods... I mean, there's Eru, the One, and... But I don't suppose you're interested in theological niceties."

"Well only the ones that explain why you can't have a decent shag!" Elfhelm sounded amused, but it was a friendly amusement.

"Well, I (like much of the nobility of Gondor) am descended from the faithful of Numenor. And we honour our Elven heritage. And for elves, to join their bodies together is a holy act that joins their souls – their feä become one, and they are married for eternity. And this is what we seek for ourselves – to wait until we meet the one whose soul we choose to bind ourselves to."

"That must take some self control," said Elfhelm, dryly.

"Well," Faramir said, with a rueful smile, "I suppose in truth not everyone does manage it. But it is certainly a state we aspire to. Though it is hard." The smile broadened into a grin. "Still, only a day to go now..."

Elfhelm slapped him heartily between the shoulder blades. "It's reassuring to know you're keen, even if you are a late starter. Come on now, lad, let's go and get some fresh air."

~o~O~o~

Éowyn sat on a bench in the small kitchen garden to the rear of the Golden Hall. She still felt unsettled after the previous night's conversation. The whole thing had seemed innocent at the time. She had known that, with two days to go until the wedding, her brother, Éothain, Elfhelm and the rest intended to take Faramir and get him royally drunk and make fun of him, as befitted a groom-to-be. So it had seemed like a suitably reciprocal arrangement when several of the ladies of the Gondorian court who had arrived as part of the wedding party had suggested that they should retire to the (unused) queen's solar, and have a celebration of their own.

She should have known it was not going to go well when the only Gondorian woman she had truly formed any rapport with, Faramir's cousin the Princess Lothíriel, said that she was not coming, as the gathering was limited to married ladies only, Éowyn aside. It was at this point, with a sinking feeling, that Éowyn had realised that the intended purpose of the gathering was educational rather than social.

And now she felt really quite miserable. She had had no fears about her marriage whatsoever, for she loved Faramir and knew that he loved her, and knew that her heart quickened and her pulse raced when they kissed each other – in fact, her pounding pulse made her look forward to her wedding night with considerable enthusiasm. But now it was as if a bucket of icy water had been emptied on that happy enthusiasm.

She plucked a daisy from beside the bench and started to shred its petals one by one in an absent minded sort of way. Then to her horror she heard voices.

"Oh yes, my lady, as straightforward a first birthing as one could hope for. Not as long as it might have been, and Friðegyd is doing well – a bit sore, but no tears or lasting hurt." Éowyn recognised the voice of Dame Athelburga, the midwife who tended to most of the women of Edoras.

"And the bairn?" Oh heavens, that was the voice of Lady Hilde, Elfhelm's wife. One of the shrewdest women Éowyn knew, and not someone she wanted to talk to in her present mood.

"Oh, the bairn is fine – a good healthy size, came out pink and started screaming fit to burst almost straight away, found her way onto the tit in no time..." The voices were coming nearer. There was no escape. Sure enough, a moment later the two women rounded the corner, Hilde with her business-like stride, and Athelburga, who was somewhat plump, waddling along by her side.

"Lady Éowyn, how nice to see you out taking the air. Are all the preparations made for tomorrow?" Lady Hilde enquired.

"Yes, everything seems to be well set," Éowyn replied. As she had feared, Hilde seemed to pick up on the slight hesitancy in her voice almost immediately.

"Why, my lady, you're sitting there with a face as long as a wet Monday. What ails you? Wedding nerves?" To Éowyn's horror, Hilde plonked herself onto the bench beside her. Athelburga, following her liege-lady's lead, sat down opposite them on the low stone wall that surrounded the raised herb bed.

"Oh it's nothing at all. I probably had a bit too much wine with the ladies of the Gondorian court last night, that's all."

"Not as much as your groom, I'll wager," Hilde responded. She eyed Éowyn with her customary shrewdness, then said, "So what did they talk to you about last night?"

"Oh, they wanted to help me prepare for my wedding night. Said that no bride-to-be should go into it not knowing what to expect."

Athelburga snorted with amusement. "Ah, these strange folk from Stoningland. I've heard they bring their women folk up in ignorance of the ways of nature. But surely being from the Riddermark, you've seen enough livestock bred that none of it was going to come as a surprise to you."

"Oh of course not," said Éowyn, then added with a slightly sad air, "But seeing horses, or cattle, doesn't give you any idea of what it's going to feel like."

Hilde's brows drew together, and she eyed Éowyn suspiciously, as if this latest comment had given her the clue to home in on the source of Éowyn's mysterious and sudden fit of trepidation. "And what, precisely, did they say about what it was going to feel like?"

"Well, you see, I've been so looking forward to my wedding night, but they said that he would have to force his way through my maidenhood, and that it would hurt like a dagger being stuck into me, and there would be blood, and..." Éowyn's voice trailed off.

"Stuff and nonsense! What were they thinking of, to scare you so?" said Athelburga, sounding outraged. "For a start off, girl, use your head. Your maidenhood isn't like a drum skin, stretched tight all the way across the opening. If it was, how would your moonflow ever come out? It's more like a little frill of webbing – and chances are with the amount of riding and running around you've done, there won't be much of it left, and it's unlikely there'll be any blood either. Particularly not if you've done a little bit of investigation yourself..." The midwife looked at Éowyn, who felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "You're four and twenty – please tell me you've at least investigated a little bit?"

Éowyn wanted the ground to swallow her up. She nodded mutely.

"Thank heavens for that. The poor man's not going to have a chance of bringing you pleasure if you don't know how to bring pleasure to yourself."

"But will it hurt?" asked Éowyn.

"It might a bit – but that's not to do with any magical maidenhood, more to do with your muscles being tight and not used to relaxing – it'll get better quick enough. And the more time you spend kissing and letting him touch you beforehand, the easier it will be."

"You do like him kissing you, don't you?" said Hilde. Éowyn felt as though she was being attacked on two fronts. It was a pincer movement worthy of Eorl the young on the battlefield of Celebrant.

"Yes, of course," she replied.

"And I don't just mean finding it a bit pleasant," said Hilde, fixing her with a gimlet eye. "Does it make your pulse race? Does it make you want to cling to him so tightly you almost feel like you'd like to become part of him, and him become part of you? Does it make you wet?"

Oh Béma, her cheeks must really be aflame now, Éowyn thought. Hilde was asking if kissing made her wet – she could only mean that curious wetness that gathered between her legs when she kissed him – or even more so, when she thought of his kisses while she touched herself secretly, tucked up in bed at night in the privacy of her own chamber. She didn't know what to say. This was really not the sort of thing she had ever wanted to discuss in public, certainly not with the wife of her brother's first ever commanding officer.

"I'll take the look on your face as a yes, then, my lady. Ignore the silly Gondorian women, fussing like a bunch of clucking hens. You'll be fine, and it'll all be every bit as lovely as you thought it was going to be before they got you all upset and bothered." Hilde rose to her feet and brushed her skirts down. "Come inside with us, my lady, and we'll see if we can find your intended, and have a good laugh at his hangover."

I am, as most of my regular readers know, allergic to the Cartland-esque trope of blushing virgin ingénue ritually deflowered by the experienced, masterful man on her wedding night. However, if one is going to write a canonical wedding night, it struck me that given Tolkien's religious beliefs, it wasn't actually too much of a stretch to make them both virgins.