Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

[questionablewit]

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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

[freo]

Èowyn remains silent as well for a long time, studying the portrait with him even as she turns over his response in her head. She had assumed there was no understanding between him and some another lady (though she cannot entirely understand why, surely he was a much sought-after prospect) but it is good to hear him say so aloud.

"Well. If you think that lady Finduilas would approve, then I can find no fault in wearing it," she finally says, though it is, of course, not the whole truth of the fact. But to speak of those would be improper, even for a practical Northerner such as her.

[whattheydefend]

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, and he keeps looking at the painting rather than turning back to her, hoping his relief doesn't show too greatly. If she had still insisted on returning the cloak, he must have taken it as a sign that she had no desire even for such small steps of courtship as he has taken. For her to accept it is...not a proof of favor, necessarily, but at least not a rejection. That is enough, for now. Given all the circumstances, given how much she has been through of late, that is more than enough.

The silence that follows is a little more awkward, one he finally breaks by turning and looking over the rest of the hall. "Is there anyone else you would see, while we are here? There may be a portrait of your grandfather Thengel as well, though of that I am not certain."

[freo]

Èowyn draws in a slow breath at his soft thanks, taking a moment to look her last on Faramir's mother. Think well of me, lady, she bids in the privacy of her mind, though she's not entirely sure why she beseeches a woman long since dead, why it's important just then that she does. All she knows is that she's accepted something far more that a mere beautiful raiment in agreeing to bear this mantle at Faramir's behest; and the idea is not disagreeable, Èowyn realizes.

"Perhaps some other time," she decides after giving the suggestion some thought. For she has no memories of her own of Thengel, and though interesting as it might be to look upon his portrait, her thoughts now return to her uncle. Her expression grows somber when she adds, "For I think I am ready now to go see my uncle."

[rednightfall]

"That is all I ask." She has no hope, and Éomer cannot kindle it in her, not with so little time as they have. Perhaps not at all.

But if he can trust that she will be here when he returns, that they will yet have time, that is enough. He knows not how to dispel the dark mood that has overtaken her, but will do whatever necessary to find a way, once the final battle is done. He must have faith and hope for her, since she has none for herself, and whatever fears or doubts he has he shoves down deep, that she might not see them.

He stands and bends over her, kissing her forehead. "I must go. As your king, I command you to heal. If you wish for additional work, consider all the things that have gone undone in recent years while the Worm's will held sway, and how we might amend them. But put your efforts to healing most of all. As your brother..."

He kisses her forehead again, rests his own against it for a moment. "As your brother, I ask you to think well of me despite my faults, and to watch for my return."

[whattheydefend]

He nods, giving her his arm once more and leading her through the halls towards the throne room.

The Throne Room lies in the heart of the Tower of Ecthelion, a large, circular room ringed with tall pillars and many arches, and the ceiling several dozen feet high. The throne of the king is empty, of course, though kept ever in readiness; the throne of the Steward, which sits on the lowest of the great broad steps, is likewise empty, and Faramir averts his gaze from it. The idea of sitting in his father's chair is still inconceivable to him, for all that he is resolved to do his best as Steward.

It is easier to look upon the rest of the room. A bed of state has been placed in the center of the room, ringed with twelve torches and guarded by knights of both Rohan and Gondor. The bed is hung with green and white, the colors of Rohan, but cloth of gold covers the body of King Theoden to his breast. His hands are clasped on his sword, and his shield rests at his feet, and his face is peaceful. Faramir himself is comforted by the sight of it. Whatever happened to Theoden in recent years, he died calmly, content with himself and his deeds. May we all know such deaths, when our time comes.

The guards of Rohan clearly recognize their White Lady, judging by their eyes, but have enough discipline to not move or react at the sight of her, though something like joy pulls at their faces. Faramir smiles at them, and at the men of Gondor who show a similar relief upon seeing him.

[freo]

On any normal day, she may take more notice of the grandeur of the throne room, the seat of the King and the Stewards. But as they enter the great room, all she sees is her uncle laid to rest upon a bier in the middle of it, his body awaiting to be entombed in the burial mounds in Edoras. If such chance, indeed, they will be granted. She stiffens a little, fingers tightening briefly upon Faramir's arm, sorrow etched upon her face once more. Releasing a tiny breath as if she'd been holding it, Èowyn gently slips her hand from Faramir's arm, mustering a small, sad smile as she glances briefly over at him.

Then she takes a step ahead, and another, striding slowly with her head held high inside the ring of torches circling the bed, coming to stand by her uncle. Finely and with all due honor Théoden has been laid to his rest, Èowyn observes, as a king should-- Herugrim, cleaned and polished to shine, lays clasped in his hands, crossed over his chest. He looks at peace and content in his forever sleep, and as much as Èowyn is heartened by it and a trembling smile comes to her lips then, so do tears well up in her eyes as grief and love mingle in her heart.

Setting a gentle hand on top of her uncle's cold ones, she leans down to kiss his cool brow one last time. "Ferthu, Théoden. Ferthu," she murmurs softly as she pulls away and takes a step back from the bed, wiping the tears that have slipped down her cheeks away. But she cannot leave just yet, standing silent vigil over Théoden's bier just for a moment longer.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir stands back to let Eowyn make her farewells more privately, though there is deep compassion in his eyes as he watches her. If this brings her any peace, it will have been more than worth any effort it took to persuade the Warden of the Houses.

After she has stood in silence for some time, he moves forward and places a hand on her shoulder, to offer her what comfort he may.

[freo]

She inhales deeply and closes her eyes for a moment, the slight tension about her shoulders relaxing under the gentle press of his hand.

"Thank you," she whispers then, sounding weary but grateful indeed. "For bringing me here."

if Eowyn speaks Gondorian Sindarin, she'd still only make out "Forgive me, my lord" or similar

[whattheydefend]

"You are welcome," he says quietly. "I hope--"

"Lord Faramir!"

The exclamation echoes in the room, and is immediately followed by a greater clamor yet, as someone behind them drops whatever it was he was carrying. The sound reverberates unduly in the chamber, and Faramir whirls as though he expects some enemy to have appeared behind them, half-reaching for a sword he's not currently wearing. The guards too turn and reach for weapons, relaxing only when they see clearly who has spoken and that it is no threat to their charge.

The source of the commotion seems harmless enough: one of the many servants of the Tower, dressed in the livery of those who directly serve the Steward. But his face is aghast and pale under his dark hair, and he runs forward and kneels at Faramir's feet, taking the hem of his surcoat in his hands and kissing it while babbling in the version of the Elven-tongue that is spoken in Gondor. Faramir is hard-pressed to hear coherent words in the rapid, desperate cascade, but kneels himself and places his hands on the servant's shoulders, calling him by name in gentle, firm tones.

The man--who is young, younger than Faramir, and near tears--draws a heaving breath and speaks more clearly, still unable to meet Faramir's gaze directly. Faramir's eyes widen as he listens for a few moments, then he interrupts. More firmly he gives a few brief commands and stands, bringing the other man to his feet with him.

After a few more words the other man nods and salutes, returning to the side of the room to collect the items he dropped in his surprise and dismay, and departs in a swift walk that is not quite a run. Faramir stands silent for a moment, looking after him with a faint frown, the expression in his eyes unfathomable.

[freo]

Èowyn whirls about too, gasping sharply as she's startled by the noise, her heart leaping in her chest; similarly for a brief moment, she thinks there is an attack, the urge to act -- to flee or to fight -- flooding her veins. But there is no such thing, merely a distraught servant hurrying to prostrate himself at Faramir's feet.

Théoden's court had been something of an anomaly in Rohan, for Sindarin was not unfamiliar a tongue there, thanks to Thengel and Morwen and their stay in Gondor prior to Thengel taking up the throne. But Èowyn's grasp of the Elven language is shaky at best, and the servant is very upset indeed. She cannot make out much. Is the man apologizing? For what? It is evidently a matter most serious, regardless of what it is, and Èowyn is left bewildered and concerned over the unexpected scene.

"Faramir?" She can no longer stand the uncertainty after Faramir dismisses the servant, wringing her hands slightly to keep from fidgeting in a worse manner. "Is something the matter?"

[whattheydefend]

Faramir pauses before answering. "I am not certain," he says finally. "And I hesitate to speculate before I may hear him further."

He takes her arm again, guiding her towards the room's exit. There are too many people here, and while it is likely futile to prevent rumours--all sorts of rumours--from spreading, he would do what he can to limit them. The guards are entirely loyal, he is sure--but they are still human, and that was a scene that will not be soon forgotten, nor overlooked.

Once they have drawn a little apart, Faramir looks at Éowyn, apology written in his face. "My lady--Éowyn, forgive me. I had meant to wander with you a little more yet, before redeeming my promise to the Warden to return us both for the midday meal. But I think this is business that cannot wait. Would you be willing to return with our escort alone? You need not hurry, if you wish to tarry here with your kinsman a while longer. I will rejoin you as soon as I may, but I must attend to this first, and I think it may take some time."

[theywhowait]

He is beet red himself, and he chuckles a little breathlessly.

"I see you had not quite thought that far ahead." He kisses the crown of golden hair in his arms. "But I did not... wish to assume too much, or too little. And we are alone, after all."

damnit it ate my reply D=

[theywhowait]

"Perhaps Sam?" Faramir opinions with a laugh. Sam and Rosie seem to be adding to their brood every time they turn around, and surely Merry and Pippin are nothing compared to their horde of fauntlings.

It is exactly the best sort of day for this sort of thing - not to warm, not to cold, peaceful with the world around them at rest. Faramir smiles drowsily up at her.

"I am always glad to know that the place where my heart loves is joyful also to the lady who holds said heart!"

He kisses her finger as it tidies up the jam.

"The bounty of our fields reflects the work we have all put in, I think. And I am glad for it! It gives me great hope that this land will do well in the years to come."

[withoutswords]

"No, I had not," she admits, for it is easier to be swept up in the moment than to deliberately plan such a thing, for Éowyn. So far, at least. "Though the idea is...not without appeal. Especially as you put it." A different sort of wedding, one entirely private, entirely theirs...oh, that is an idea to leave her breathless with wonder.

"And yet..." She pulls away a little, looking up at him with wide, serious eyes. "You have ever followed my lead, in this," Eowyn says slowly. "You have shown both gentleness and restraint, and I love you all the more for it. But I do not know what it is you want, if you would prefer to--" She flushes a little again, and takes a breath. "To wait until we are wed proper, for all to see and know, or to have some more...more private celebration. Or even if you would prefer to have a mattress!"

She laughs a little with that last addition. Her hands are pressed to his chest, and she looks unusually vulnerable in this moment, much more her age. Not the bold shieldmaiden, but a young woman unsure of herself.

[freo]

It is not the most reassuring answer. Some impatience niggles in the back of her mind, mingling with consternation; mostly triggered by the look on Faramir's face. But she says nothing when he takes her arm once more, intuitively understanding he does not wish to speak more of the matter right there. How well her name sounds from his lips, softened by his Gondorian accent-- but this is no time for such girlish ruminations.

"There is nothing to forgive," she says with a slight shake of her head. "I can make it back by myself." But there's a frown on her face; not out of displeasure, though she is a little loathe to lose his company, but out of concern. She wants to bid him to be cautious, for some silly reason, though surely the matter is nothing so serious nor so ill. She hopes.

"I hope whatever the matter is, it shall be resolved swiftly. And... take care," she adds quietly despite her earlier rationalization, tamping down on a sudden urge to touch his hand, arm; something to offer further reassurance.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir smiles at her suddenly, touched by her concern, and takes her hand and kisses it. It is more a courtly gesture than one of greater meaning, though his mouth lingers on her knuckles perhaps a hair longer than it should. "I shall, my lady, if you will do the same. If I am kept past luncheon, please give my apologies to Merry."

He walks with her back to their horses, and sees her off with their escort, watches her ride through the gate to the Citadel. Only then does he turn back, his expression extremely serious as he walks briskly towards his study, where he has already arranged to meet with the servant he spoke with briefly.

Their interview lasts for some time.

Faramir does not return to the Houses of Healing for the midday meal. Neither is he seen in the afternoon nor even at dinnertime, or later in the evening. The Warden of the Houses, not at all pleased at his patient's disappearance, sends for him, but to no avail. Merry, much concerned, keeps Eowyn company as much as she will permit. But eventually the hour is late enough that most of the residents of the House go to their beds, Merry included, and still Faramir has not returned.

That night is a dreadful nightfall, where the dark power from the East looms over all things and its brooding malice is almost tangible even in Minas Tirith. None go to their beds easy, and even those who are most hardy feel their hope falter. Even Merry looks in the direction of the Black Gate and wonders if he will see his friends and kinsman again.

At some late hour, midnight or after, Faramir returns and can be found sitting in the main dining area. The laces of his collar and sleeves are all undone, and his hair looks more unkempt, as though he has run his hands through it several times. His face is drawn, and for the first time in several days he looks like the invalid he still is, recovering from the after-effects of fell poison. There is a plate of bread and cheese and cold meat nearby, mostly eaten, and a bottle of wine, mostly empty.

But for now he ignores these, and sits still as stone, staring into a candleflame with an almost grim focus, as though he would like to question it. As though some mystery might be answered there. There is no telling how long he has sat there, or if he ever intends to move again.

[freo]

The skin over her knuckles still tingling at the gentle press of his lips, Èowyn can't help but glance behind her shoulder back at Faramir as she rides off, catching a brief glimpse of his figure before the line of sight is severed. In her heart creeps a sudden ill feeling; like she shouldn't have left him. But what other option does she have? It is clearly some matter that requires the attention of the Steward, and he is a grown man capable of looking after himself. He'd be back once he'd settled the issue. None of her reasonings make her feel any better, though.

Midday comes and goes, and herself and Merry dine by themselves. Though they chat and even laugh as they used to, they both feel the absence of Faramir keenly. How quickly the three of them have become nigh inseparable, their kinship forged by joint convalescence. Èowyn's concern grows greater with each hour, and she knows even Merry is uneasy. When dinnertime arrives with no Faramir, she goes so far as to ask leave to return to the Citadel to check in on him. The Warden declares quite adamantly he has no intention of losing two patients in the same afternoon. Though Faramir's tardiness pleases the Warden not, he is sure the Steward would return as soon as he could. Though Èowyn understands the man's reasoning, she resents it all the same.

Èowyn can find no rest that night, shaken by the stretching, grasping shadow of the East that appears so potent and malignant all of the sudden-- but moreover, she's troubled by some foreboding that has settled in her heart. She tosses and turns, and when she finally falls into fitful slumber, it is only to be jolted awake a while later, a hoarse cry dying upon her lips. Panting, she wipes cold sweat off her brow and tosses off her covers, pacing the room until she can stand it no longer; she cannot stay penned inside right now. Throwing the starry mantle over her nightrail and slipping her feet into a pair of slippers, Èowyn leaves her chambers and roams the silent, dark hallways of the Houses toward the gardens.

Just for a while, she justifies her breach of curfew, hoping the cool night air will soothe her anxieties.

She dodges an errant healer on night duty, continuing on her path that takes her through the common areas, mostly deserted now. She's about to pass the dining area by, when a faint glow of candlelight catches her eye, and by it a lone figure she recognizes a few beats later.

"Faramir!" It's merely a startled gasp, so surprised to spy him alone in the dark. Her feet move before she knows it, nigh running in her haste to reach him, the mantle billowing around her before settling again when she drops to the bench next to Faramir, scooting closer than is proper or entirely necessary. She doesn't notice, and wouldn't care if she did. "Faramir, what is wrong? Why do you sit here alone, in the dark?"

For a second, she's upset to the point of wanting to scold him; has he no idea how concerned she and Merry have been? Why did he not tell her he's returned? But then she catches a proper look at him in the feeble light of the candle, and is alarmed by his haggard appearance. What on earth has befallen him? What news did he hear? Her heart constricts in sympathy and dread both, and she thinks nothing of reaching out and grasping his closest hand in hers, startling at the coolness of his skin. Hissing in dismay, she sandwiches his palm in between both of hers, rubbing briskly to coax some warmth back into his flesh though the motion makes her broken arm twinge some.

"Your hands are cold... How long have you been out here like this?"

[whattheydefend]

Faramir is so lost in his own thoughts that at first, when he hears his name called and looks up to see a shining silver and midnight blue figure in a beam of moonlight, face shadowed but hair shining, he thinks it is Elbereth herself. But then she calls him to him again and rushes to his side, taking his hand and rubbing it in her own. "Èowyn," he murmurs, almost as astonished as if she had been the Star-kindler in truth, for he has been so bound in other thoughts for most of the day that for the first time since they met, he has not thought of her.

But she is real, her hands are real and warm where they wrap around his. Faramir had not realized he was so cold. "Èowyn," he repeats, more strongly, bringing his other hand to cover hers. Belatedly, he realizes she has asked a question, and frowns as he tries to think of the answer. "An hour, perhaps? I am not certain, I--"

He flushes a little, shaking his head as though to banish some confusion. "Forgive me. You--do not find me at my best, just now."

And that is embarassing, for he wants few things more than for her to have a good impression of him, has taken pains to make it so. This was hardly in his plans. Though he has not planned much since the revelations of this morning. Much of it is something of a blur. Which may in part be the wine, though he has not, he judges, had enough to actually be drunk. Enticing as the thought was, in some ways, he now is glad he resisted the temptation, for this scene would be altogether worse if Èowyn had discovered him in a drunken stupor. "Forgive me," he says again. "For causing you any concern."

[freo]

It is like something akin waking from some stupor, the way Faramir seems to pull himself away from his thoughts at her presence. He seems lost, almost, and Èowyn's concern takes flight once more.

"Please, stop apologizing. There is no need," she says, softly but firmly, her hands stilling as Faramir covers them with his free one. "Though we were concerned, Merry and I. You were gone for so long."

She bites her lip, silent for a moment as she studies him in the dim light of the moon and the candle. Some ill knowledge has made his face gaunt, deepened the lines there. Her need to know what has happened will not be stayed or denied for longer, and with some weight behind her words, she squeezes his hands and urges, "Pray, Faramir, what has you so distraught? Will you not speak of it to me, your friend? Shared trouble is trouble halved, as we say in Rohan."

A part of her feels a little disingenuous to title herself his friend only, when some tendrils of understanding have, of late, begun to slowly wind around her heart. But this is not the time for such thoughts. Besides, they are friends, too.

[whattheydefend]

A shadow crosses his face, and he looks down at their joined hands. There is a very long pause.

"I have discovered how my father died," he says finally, releasing her hands in order to rub his forehead. He looks​ briefly back at the candle flame and grimaces. "It is a dreadful tale. Enough that I hesitate to tell you of it, for fear of giving you more nightmares than you must already have." Sparse words, to explain how haunted his eyes look.

[freo]

She closes her eyes for a moment, and drops her chin. A staid topic indeed, and one that would put such a haunted look upon his face. A chill passes over her, fearing already this tale, but she does not quail.

"Allow me to worry about my nightmares. I would rather ease your burden, if I may." Surely that is the least she can do after every kindness that he's paid her, during these past days. They have not even known each other quite full week yet, but that does not seem to matter; she likes him better already than some folk she has known most of her life.

Quietly, she affirms, "I will listen, if you have a mind to tell me."

for faramir! :3

[freo]

Weddings were an exuberant affair in Rohan, and it's no different in the case of Èowyn and Faramir. The whole night since the ceremony had been a whirlwind of dancing, drinking, laughter and general merrymaking, and it was likely to go on until dawn-- hardly slowing down despite the fact that the newlyweds had departed the celebration in favor of a more private one.

Èowyn's cheeks are flushed from anticipation and the sweet strawberry wine she may have indulged in a bit too heavily during the feast, a wedding gift from Faramir's Dol Amroth kin, as she hustles the maids sent to help her prepare out of the grand room reserved for their wedding night. Later, they would travel to spend their honeymoon in a more secluded, private place, but this first night they would spend under Meduseld's roof.

The maids have removed the ample golden jewellery she'd worn and brushed out her long hair until it gleamed, but Èowyn had refused the suggestion to remove her wedding gown in favor of a shift afore her husband joins her; a magnificent concoction of deep green velvet and silk, trimmed and embroidered with gold. A wedding gown fit for a princess of Rohan.

Her new husband and none other would have the honor of undressing her from it, in a moment.

Her excitement is understandable, for months of betrothal and longing to be reunited with Faramir -- whose duties kept him in Gondor while she had to return to Rohan -- had finally come to a head. They were finally married. Her husband -- how strange and wonderful that sounds! She'd been nigh bursting with happiness when the retinue from Gondor had arrived a handful of days ago, struggling not to immediately launch herself into Faramir's embrace the moment she'd laid eyes on him. How Èomer had made fun of her pining! But letters were a poor substitute indeed for the touch and presence of her betrothed. The days leading up to the ceremony was a trial in itself, a true test of fortitude to follow decorum when pent-up desires were desperate to take over. Èowyn thinks she may have tested Faramir's resolve a little too much at times, tempting him with kisses whenever they could sneak a moment alone; ever passionate, once she commits herself to something, she throws herself into it with everything she has. Their relationship was no different.

But here they finally were, long at last. The thought has barely crossed her mind when the heavy wooden door opens, permitting Faramir inside. Èowyn smiles, even as her breath catches in her throat. Béma, how handsome and resplendent he looks in his wedding finery! My husband, she thinks anew with some sense of awe, feeling absolutely besotted with him and not caring one jot if all who look upon her can see it.

[whattheydefend]

"Even so, I hardly know how to begin," he admits, his shoulders sagging a little. He is half-turned where he sits beside her on the bench, facing a point between her and the candle, one hand resting on the table and the other still in her hands. The flickering candlelight throws warmth onto her face, clearly showing the concern and willingness there.

It is not that he doubts her ability to carry such a burden, merely that he does not know how to speak of any of it. If it were daylight, or some less silent hour, perhaps he would not be able to at all. But this quiet time of night is the sort where secrets may be spoken, even the hardest ones that should not see the light of day, nor be generally known. And Èowyn, of all people, is familiar with shadows and dark tales.

"I have told you...somewhat, of how things stood between my father and I," he says finally. "I have not told you the full extent of it, particularly not at the last." He is silent for another moment, then sighs, reaching for his goblet of wine and drinking from it. There is another empty goblet handy, and he places it in front of her, in case she wishes to share what remains of the bottle. "Have you heard how I came to be injured?"

[freo]

Èowyn rolls her lips into her mouth for a moment, a little pained to see Faramir so visibly distraught and despairing. Wordlessly, she squeezes his hand again in effort to support, waiting for once with uncharacteristic patience for him to corral his thoughts. The thumb of her good hand begins to rub tiny back-and-forth motion against the back of his, without her conscious notice.

She nods her head in agreement when he finally speaks, swallowing at the addition. The fact something was left unsaid of that sorry matter does not bode well, she thinks, recalling too keenly Faramir's sorrow and despair when he'd told her of his father and how things stood between them. Though she glances at the goblet he places before her and is tempted to join him for a drink, she holds still for now. "Yes-- in battle, defending Osgiliath, I believe."

bad DW, no biscuit! (or jam)

[withoutswords]

She chuckles when he kisses her finger, running it playfully along the line of his mouth. "I am certain it will. It will take more time yet, but Ithilien will once again be the garden of Gondor." It gives her great pride to be part of that reclaimation, which seems of a piece with her own healing. All the work she puts into their country is repaid in literal abundance, a thing far more rewarding to her now than the warrior's work she once longed for. Here, they will build something that lasts beyond themselves.

She laughs a little at that thought, wonderingly. "And we shall have a child to see it, and pass it all onto after we have finished all we can do. What a amazement that is!"