A/N: I was looking back over my Teitho competition pieces and realized that I had never published this one. So here it is. Submitted for Teitho Challenge: Stories and pictures where it remained unplaced. I don't own LOTR. Everything belongs to the genius of JRR Tolkien.

Aragorn sighed as he breathed in the sweet savor of the roses, lilac and lavender wafting the late summer's breeze. He closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sunlight filtering through the majestic trees that dotted Ithilien's landscape. He wandered with no destination in mind as he simply followed his feet across the soft grasses. As he crested a small hillock, his clear gaze landed on a familiar dark head bent intently over a parchment before him.

"Faramir, mellon nin, what are you studying so diligently?" he asked as he drew nearer to his steward.

The younger man jumped at the sudden intrusion, his cheeks flushing crimson as he beheld the king striding toward him. "'Tis nothing my lord," he murmured softly, attempting to hide the object of his fascination. Aragorn tilted his head as he took in the dark smudges on his friend's hands as well as another streak the marred the man's brow.

"Nothing must be a rather dirty business," he remarked, his grey eyes twinkling with mirth. The king sank down next to the lord of Ithilien as Faramir hastily made room for him. He stretched out his long legs and leaned back against a tree as he drew his pipe from his pocket.

"Did you know that your mother was an accomplished artist as well?" he asked as he idly packed his pipe. "Though she favored paints over charcoal." He met the steward's startled gaze with a gentle smile.

"From your bewilderment, I must surmise that you did not know."

"Nay, I remember very little of my mother and neither Father nor Boromir ever mentioned such a talent. Father rarely spoke of her after her passing and Boromir would not have been interested." He retrieved his parchment, drawing the paper through loving fingers. "It gives me comfort to know that I share her gift."

Aragorn peered over his friend's shoulder at the drawing. Even in the rough sketch, Éowyn's face stared back at him. The White lady was seated astride a running horse, her hair loose and streaming behind her while her lips turned up in an expression of joy. "Did she pose for you or are you sketching from memory?"

A sheepish smile crossed Faramir's face. "She doesn't know about it. She was riding in the southern paddock a few days past and I watched her from the trees. I wanted to surprise her for her birthday."

"It is a fitting gift, mellon nin," the King remarked. "I am sure Éowyn will cherish it." He drew a lungful of smoke before glancing over at his steward. "Why did you try to hide it from me? You need not be ashamed of something that is both a talent and a passion."

Faramir's grey eyes gleamed with sudden moisture. "It is habit, I suppose. Father disapproved of my talent and he deemed it beneath my station to 'engage in such frivolous pastimes'." He sighed softly, turning the stick of charcoal in his hands. "He caught me drawing and he forced me to burn my sketchbook as punishment. I was careful to hide my drawings after that but he still found out. He strapped me and then ordered me to the sword master for extra lessons." His gaze met that of his liege. "Forgive me; I feared you would feel the same as he did."

Aragorn placed a hand on his steward's shoulder, his weathered face lightened in a smile. "I will never condemn your talent. Such a gift should be encouraged and strengthened rather than downtrodden."

The younger man smiled back, blinking away the tears. "Thank you, Aragorn," he murmured softly. He cleared his throat. "Do you truly believe that Eowyn will love it?"

"Without a doubt, Faramir," Aragorn replied. "Without a doubt."