Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

[questionablewit]

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Comments

XD

[theywhowait]

"And I thee." He cups her cheek with one hand and kisses her again.

"Oh Eowyn! I never thought to know such bliss."

I love teel deers and wish I had more tag time on weekends!!

[whattheydefend]

Faramir finds himself grateful for Èowyn's company for an unexpected reason. Beyond its own sake, she provides something of a distraction. It was one thing to know, to see from a little distance, of the damage sustained during the siege. It is another to see some of the results firsthand. Not for the first time, Faramir finds himself frustrated with the need to wait and recover in the Houses of Healing, for all that he himself counselled Èowyn that they would need to endure it with patience. But there is so much work to do. So much.

Assuming they will all still be alive in the coming weeks to do it--and he has planned for the possibility that the army marching towards the Black Gate will fail, has thought on practical measure of what would need to be done next. For someone must, howevermuch Faramir trusts and hopes it will not come to pass.

But he is glad of the distraction of Èowyn's company on this, his true return to the city he loves and defends. And now, at least for a time, holds in his charge. He watches her reactions closely as he tells her of it, and more as they reach the summit. It matters greatly to him that she should think well of Minas Tirith.

He smiles a little as he looks around the courtyard, as the cold winds bite at their faces. She looks stunned, and he can well understand it. "This is where I spent my childhood," he says quietly. "And a hundred times or more I have ridden from the city and returned, yet always I feel the same awe when I stand here."

[withoutswords]

"Nor did I." She pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, stroking hair back from his face. A faintly impish smile returns. "And I am most pleased to finally have a chance to show you such without fear of interruption."

It's another interesting point about this hill: you can see for miles. Chances of being caught unawares are extremely unlikely.

[freo]

Inexplicably, seeing more of Minas Tirith up close like this does well to dispel any lingering desire she may have had of being her queen. Not that the city isn't beautiful, steeped in history and grand beyond compare, for it is. Perhaps, it is even a little too grand for a child of the Mark. For the Eorlingas were creatures of simpler tastes and more practical ways; would she ever get used to dwelling in this city of stone? Èowyn knows well there are Gondorian lords who would take every opportunity to remind Rohan the lands they now call their own were a gift from Gondor, once upon a time. She cannot help but smile a little to herself, amused by the idea of those people suffering a Rohirric queen. But does she want it anymore, truly, to be the queen of this all? No, the answer comes to her, at length but utterly certain.

Drawing the blue mantle closer about her frame as the winds buffet them, warmed blissfully by its embrace, Èowyn nods her agreement. "It is very lovely, and very grand. Worlds away from anything we have in Rohan."

For a moment, she feels insufferably uncultured and unrefined in the midst of it all, dwarfed by the potent magnificence of the city, resplendent even in disrepair of the siege-- and feels all over again the certainty of her decision to renounce desires of being the queen of Gondor and Minas Tirith.

However... Èowyn glances discreetly at Faramir, seeing the love he bears for his home reflected on his face plainly. She could learn to dwell here had she a reason to, she is equally certain of that.

[withoutswords]

Their rides often end up like this. Windfola, like his mistress, hates to be restrained; though he will be more calm once allowed to run wild for a time. They lead Faramir and Mithlun a merry chase for a time before slowing down near the further fields and choosing slower paces--and Eowyn demonstrates that there is at least a little joy in the catching, for she gives Faramir a kiss once he has managed it, though they stay on horseback for it.

The further fields, of course, require only a cursory glance to determine that they are in fine shape for the plowing months ahead. And once that is determined they are free to change their course towards the nearby woodlands. By now Eowyn knows the area around Eryn Arnen nearly as well as Faramir himself does, and they ride (much more slowly, with trees now surrounding them, to Windfola's disgust) through the forest until they find a small creek, then turn to follow it upstream.

They make idle talk as they ride, and from some unspoken agreement keep only to easy topics: the care of the house, word from mutual friends, nothing urgent. Eowyn passes on the details of her latest letter from Merry, including his confirmation that he is officially the tallest hobbit to ever have been measured, a fact of which he is extremely pleased, not least because he is now also on record as being slightly taller than Pippin. "Though Pippin, of course, protests this," she concludes, smiling a little. Without her even realizing, the hand not holding Windfola's reins is resting on her abdomen again, despite their not having been speaking about the baby.

[shieldofrohan]

She lets out a little huff, low in her throat, that might be laughter. "You have so much faith that there will be time for song, when all of this is done? That there will be a land to be rebuilt?" Her hand tightens on his, as if to steady herself, and she nods slowly. Whatever she is thinking, she turns it over in her mind time and again, to judge by the space of silence that follows before she nods again. "Yes. You believe it. And I cannot, but Éomer, my brother, my king..." Again, she sighs, and lapses into quietness a second, as if groping for the words. Her tiredness is all but palpable, a tiredness that runs heart-deep. "If you need me, I will be here."

[whattheydefend]

Faramir's expression too is a little wistful, for all its admiration as he looks around what must surely be a vista as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, and he shakes his head. His voice is more quiet, more confiding, as he answers her. "Lovely and grand, yes. And yet...awe rarely goes hand in hand with comfort. Or with peace."

His smile is a little regretful for a moment before he shakes his head and turns back to her, offering his arm yet again before leading her across the Court of the Fountain. "I should like to visit Rohan, and test your claim. I have heard tell of the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and often wished to see it; to me it has always sounded magnificent."

[freo]

Èowyn makes no reply to that, though the look in her eyes is sympathetic. She can relate to such a sentiment all too well. Curving her hand over his proffered arm, she falls into step next to him.

"It is that, if in a very different manner than Minas Tirith." But perhaps that goes without saying, she realizes with a hint of embarrassment. She's quick to carry on with a small smile, "Perhaps you shall yet see it and judge for yourself, one day. I should be pleased to give you a tour, of the Golden Hall and Edoras both."

Perhaps it was a little presumptuous to say, but what of it? They could afford some lighter musings as these to tide them over the darkness.

[whattheydefend]

"If we have the opportunity, be assured that I will take it, my lady." His smile is warm and untroubled again as he looks at her, and judging by his eyes it does not seem he believes there is any grace lacking in either Rohan or its people. "I can think of few things I would like more than to see the land of Eorl, the more so if you were my guide."

But they have reached the door of the Citadel, and once they pass through it he pauses with her, for now they come to serious matters. "You have expressed two wishes to me in past days, which may now be fulfilled if you desire. I had assumed you would first wish to see your uncle and confirm that he is resting in all honor with your own eyes. But if you would rather save that until the last, we may turn to the portrait hall first, and look on the painting of your kinswoman Morwen. Have you a preference?"

[theywhowait]

"Oh, I see." Faramir raises an amused eyebrow at her.

"Ulterior motives, my lady?"

[theywhowait]

Faramir often thinks he is fortunate Ithilien has as many plains as woods, or poor Windfola would be forever irritated! But eventually the spirited stallion has had enough to consent to walk again, and Faramir spends the time idly watching his wife with fond eyes as they talk about simple things.

"Poor Pippin! No doubt he has started to agitate about returning to Fangorn so that he might settle that score on his side. Did I not hear that he is courting now?"

[withoutswords]

"Awareness of an opportunity," she corrects, still toying with his hair and face with idle, affectionate caresses. She smiles again, flushing just a little. "Though I would be lying if I said the thought had not occurred to me earlier."

[withoutswords]

"He is," she confirms, smiling. "A young lady with the unlikely name of 'Diamond'. I hope she knows what she is getting into." Pippin has calmed down a good deal since his younger days before the War of the Ring, but he remains Pippin. "Ah, here--"

Sure enough, there is a small meadow by the side of the stream, dotted with bluebells and a few lingering snowdrops. Eowyn dismounts and looks around, her expression as pleased as if she somehow conjured it personally. She smiles up at Faramir, still mounted. "What do you think? Will this do for a picnic, or shall we continue on towards the waterfall?"

[freo]

There it is again, that warmth in his gaze and smile both, that regard, when he looks at her. She should resent being made feel like some foolish girl with an infatuation -- again -- but there is no falsehood or different meaning in Faramir's words that she can discern. And though her own judgment in these matters has taken a harsh hit in the wake of Aragorn, she's more inclined to trust her own heart, now. Smiling with quiet pleasure, she ducks her chin as they enter the Citadel proper, but draws in a deep breath to prepare herself as Faramir draws them into a halt, turning solemn.

Each choice presents its own merits, and for a moment Èowyn hesitates in thought, glancing down at the main hallway opening in front of them as if to cast her eyes to wherever her uncle lies.

"May we look upon the painting, first?" she eventually requests quietly, perhaps slightly unexpectedly, turning her head to gaze at Faramir again. "I think I would like to see it without a fresh sorrow clouding at my eyes."

For she does not doubt that grief will mingle with gratefulness in her once more upon laying eyes on her uncle's body, as much as she has made her peace with his passing.

feel free to invent portraits of your own btw =) including his family if you like

[whattheydefend]

Her choice is a little unexpected, but he sees the wisdom of it and nods at once, turning them to the right down a hallway. It turns out to lead to a series of hallways, all of them made of the same white marble and laden with statues. Their footsteps echo as they walk.

Fortunately it is not too many turns until he opens a door until a room, one where all the curtains are closed, no doubt to protect the paintings within from being damaged by sunlight when they are not being observed. He goes at once to the window and begins pulling the curtains open, tying them back, until the room is brightly lit.

It is a dazzling display of paint. The contents are a variety of sizes, from small head-shots to wide scenes. All of them contain people, and nearly all of those are the ruling Stewards and their kin.

Faramir points towards particular portrait, of a lady from the waist up, her gown golden and her eyes serene and undaunted. Her dark hair seems to blow in an unseen wind, for all that the paint is motionless and long dried, and even fixed in place she has a feel of graceful movement to her. "There, that one. I have wondered how accurate a representation it was. What think you?"

ooh i know just the thing, i'll spring it on you soon lol :3

[freo]

So many statues! And they all seem to stare at them in stony silence as they pass, kings and stewards of times past. Èowyn thinks it feels a little foreboding, for all that these halls are as fine and lofty as the outside of the Citadel. Some strange coldness seems to cling to the whole house, reminiscent of Meduseld while Théoden was still unwell and Gríma had run of the place. It's good that Faramir guides her, for she thinks she would get lost here left on her own...

Èowyn suppresses a small cough at the musty air of the dark chamber Faramir lets them into, for clearly nobody has been here in a while. She wonders at the neglect, but soon has other things to think about once Faramir begins to pull aside the heavy curtains that block out the light of day. She waves a hand in front of her face slightly as the billowing curtains spill out some dust from their folds, fighting another cough for a moment.

"So many," she wonders aloud with some astonishment as light floods into the room and illuminates the arrays of paintings in all possible sizes, it seems to her. Then Faramir points out the one of Morwen, and Èowyn is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It is impressive indeed, and for a while she takes in the likeness of her grandmother in her prime in reverent silence, pondering the question.

"The artist has captured her grace, for she ever seemed to glide rather than walk, and age never bowed her proud frame. Though I recall she often appeared... troubled." Èowyn frowns a little, trying to remember more, but it was a long time indeed since Steelsheen last walked among the Eorlingas, and she a mere child then.

"She had such dark hair, even in her twilight years-- but her children were born with grandfather's fair hair, as far as I know. How queer she must have seemed to the Rohirrim at first, tall and ethereal. I wonder if she thought the same of her new home and people after Lossarnach? I could not say. Steelsheen, my folk started calling her for her beauty and pride. They came to love her, no matter how foreign at first."

oooh I am curious now! yay!

[whattheydefend]

Tall, beautiful, and proud...Faramir looks on Eowyn as she speaks and thinks the family resemblance very clear, though he has his own opinions as to which of the two is the more fair.

"Steelsheen...that suits her," he says, looking back to the portrait. Morwen's is a cool beauty, like the glimmer of light on a blade. "What troubled her, do you think? Living far from her own homeland? For that would, I imagine, be a difficult thing, even if your new people came to love you."

welp, here goes! :3

[freo]

"I think so, as well. Possibly that was one reason, and also the passing of my mother at such an early age. The loss of a child should trouble any parent, I imagine. Perhaps she also missed Thengel, who died some fifteen years ere my own birth."

She takes one last, long look at Morwen's painting, before the other ones lined up on the walls beckon, her curiosity aroused. Èowyn moves slowly, studying more noble faces and heads of dark hair-- sons and daughters of Gondor, of Dol Amroth, captured in paint. But then Èowyn stops in front of another painting, much like that of Morwen's, her breath catching a little.

For it is a painting of a beautiful lady of near elven grace, dark-haired and smiling gently-- and wearing the same midnight blue mantle on her shoulders that now rests upon Èowyn's. For certainly, there can be no mistaking the glorious garment. There's a familiarity in the lady's features, and instinctively she knows.

"Is this your mother?" she asks a little breathlessly, eyes still peeled on the painting. And what she really wants to ask is: Am I wearing her mantle?

[theywhowait]

He grins shyly and kisses her fingers as they pass his mouth.

"I would be very surprised if it had not. But..." He breathes deep and kisses her gently. "... do you wish to wed me, Eowyn, as the First Elves did, under the sky in Eru's name? Or are we just enjoying the time spent together?"

[theywhowait]

"I almost feel sorry for the lass." Faramir agrees wryly. "But he has matured some, and Merry will keep him in line, I am sure."

"Ah!" He smiles at the location and then turns his fond gaze to her.

"Aye, I think this will do nicely. There's space enough to sit and for our horses to graze, and shade too."

[withoutswords]

"Oh!" She flushes deeply, a maid covered in confusion. "I had not--I would--"

Unable to find words, she buries her head in his chest. Clearly, for all her spirited boldness, she has not thought things through quite so far as she has intimated.

oooooh what a good idea!

[whattheydefend]

Ah. Faramir hears the unspoken question as well as the one asked, and his gaze flits to the starry cloak on Eowyn's shoulders before he joins her in staring at the picture on the wall. "It is," he confirms. "Finduilas of Dol Amroth. She passed when I was but five." Another thing they have in common, he and Eowyn. They both know what it is to have a mother who faded from grief.

He raises a finger to trace the line of Finduilas' hair, though he does not quite touch the canvas. "My father never recovered from her loss, I am told, and that matches my memories of the time. He loved her most deeply." He hesitates, considering, but finishes. "He had that cloak made for her before she came here, for it is much colder in Minas Tirith than in the southern regions."

glad you like it! C:

[freo]

"She was very beautiful," Èowyn says quietly and with an edge of sadness, for it is true that they both know the grief of losing a mother to such soul sickness. And yet, her mind is abuzz with speculation, still reeling a little over the fact that Faramir had chosen to grant his mother's cloak for her to wear. It feels too intimate a gift, such an heirloom.

Faramir's hesitant addition confirms it. A lover's gift, then. Her cheeks tint with some color at the implication, some knot of emotion lodging behind her breastbone she finds difficult to untangle.

"Surely, my lord, your mother's mantle is too fine and precious a thing for me to wear like this." She bites her lip. How clumsy her tongue suddenly is! She does not wish to appear ungrateful, but... "Is there no Gondorian lady who might bear it?"

To her dread, she realizes she'd just asked him none too subtly if he was affianced. For a moment, she wishes the stones beneath her feet would open up and swallow her, save her from the mortification of her blunder. But just as swiftly, some of her old stubborn determination sparks in her; no, she would not take it back, but weather it as she must.

[whattheydefend]

"There is not," Faramir says simply. He is silent for a moment, still looking at Finduilas's portrait rather than at his companion, before he continues. "If you truly feel it is too great a gift, I can find some other for you, if you prefer. But it has lain unused and packed away in a chest for decades, which seemed to me a sad waste of a beautiful thing. And I think my mother would be glad to know it now graced your shoulders."

gonna timeskip because writing people eating is boring. LMK if edits needed. =)

[withoutswords]

"But who then will keep Merry in line?" Eowyn laughs fondly, busying herself with removing Windfola's bit and bridle so he can graze more comfortably. He is even less likely to wander off than usual, given the woodlands around them.

Once their horses are comfortable they may attend to themselves, and spread out a thick blanket and enjoy their repast while sitting on it. The cook has more than outdone herself, despite the short notice, and the abundance of breads, cheeses, cold meats, and other victuals is far too much for the two of them to manage.

There is no need for haste. The weather is fine, if cool, and the stream nearby provides fresh water as well as a babbling undercurrent of sound to their own quiet conversation. Eowyn, generous with her overabundance of food, tosses nuts and bits of bread for any squirrels or birds who venture nearby. Windfola, not to be outdone by woodland creatures, demands and eventually receives a small piece of cheese for himself and then contents himself with grazing alongside Mithlun.

An hour of time finds Eowyn still sitting on the blanket, with Faramir lying stretched upon it, his head resting on her lap. She strokes his hair with idle pleasure, looking around at trees. "Your land is a most beautiful one, Prince of Ithilien." She smiles down at him, for he does not look very princely just at the moment, his hair a wild tangle in her lap and his body sprawled comfortably, and just a touch of strawberry jam at the corner of his mouth. She laughs and leaves off brushing his hair to attend to that. "And, it seems, a bountiful one."