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

Gonna hold you to that. Also sorry for the delay, Eomer is harder.

[rednightfall]

Her pertness almost makes him groan again, from mixed frustration and admiration, for she is adorable when she looks like that. She is also impossible. He intends to shrug her words off and invite her once more to leave, but finds himself saying something rather different.

"How can you be so certain that this--" Eomer waves his hand, so that this might imply almost anything. The Riddermark, the Meduseld. Himself. "--is what you want? You have barely spent any time here. You have barely spent any time with me. How can you be so certain already that you wish to leave behind all you know, all you love?"

He'd like to dismiss her surety as some youthful infatuation, but she is making it very difficult. And he is genuinely astonished by her certitude.

lol <3 and that's ok!

[leftbehindthesea]

She shakes her head at him.

"I'm not. But I must, Eomer. Don't you see? I'm the Lord of Dol Amroth's only daughter - sooner or later, I would have had to leave home to marry someone. Oh, father would have chosen very carefully to make sure I would be happy, but ultimately I know my duty to my people. But I like you, and I like what I see of Rohan. I could be happy with you, Eomer. I really really think I could. And it would make Father happy, and be politically useful. Everyone wins."

She bites her lip and looks away. "Unless you really don't like me, I guess."

GASP no *jam*?

[theywhowait]

He makes playful attempts to catch her finger as she does so.

"A child to whom we can give this land to." He agrees, smiling lovingly up at her. "And he or she, one day, to their own children."

[theywhowait]

Faramir blushes deeper red still.

"I have, for I would not have any say that I acted out of turn. I... would not mind, obviously, for I love you dearly, and the wait chafes at me as much as at you. Your brother would be wroth, perhaps, but we need not speak of it to him, especially as we both know we will have to be wed before the eyes of our peoples at some point.

But I do confess a mattress would probably be more comfortable! Not necessary but... beneficial."

1/2

[whattheydefend]

"Osgliath was overrun," Faramir says, looking down into his wineglass. "A year ago we held it, and under my brother's leadership we kept it from being reclaimed. But that was merely a trial to test our numbers, and the Enemy retook it not long since, filling it with his forces to send on to the Pelennor. To attempt to retake it now was to walk into the heart of his army, poorly positioned, outnumbered by at least ten times what we could bring to bear, and likely more."

He lets out a long breath. "It was little more than a suicide mission, and all knew it--yet the Lord of the City ordered that it be done, despite all counsel. Only the day before he had bemoaned the fact that it was Boromir who died while I lived, and now he sent me to do what he believed Boromir could have done, though I would swear even my brother could not have retaken Osgiliath in such circumstances. And such was my love and loyalty that I would let him spend me thus, whatever the cost to myself. Despite knowing that even if I succeeded I had no guarantee of...anything, if I returned."

A brief, bitter smile crosses his mouth. If. He had managed to keep faith that the war might yet be won, but lost all hope he would live to see it, and most of his desire for it. His hand clenches harder around hers, though he does not realize it. To accept your own death is not the same as to long for it, but still it was a dark thing. "Being ordered needlessly to my death I might have forgiven, perhaps. But to take my men, to fling them like grains of sand at an ocean of horror...to see them look to me still with hope, with faith that I might yet claim some measure of victory from such impossible odds..."

Faramir closes his eyes, rubs them and his forehead. "If he had asked me to ride out alone, to face all the hordes of Mordor unclothed and with only a stick to defend myself with, I would have done it more willingly. As it was, Mithrandir counselled me not to throw my life away rashly or with bitterness, and to that I held. Osgiliath could not be taken, but yet I might hold the fords and the Anduin, and prevent the Enemy's movement that way. I did my best, and we made the Enemy pay, if not as dearly as I had hoped or my father expected. But there was no victory against such numbers, especially not when led by the Black Captain, who brought unfathomable fear with him. He it was who was our chief difficulty, for the despair he wielded was so great men would fall to their knees, or flee screaming, and so be lost. To keep them in some semblance of order that they might retreat became my task, and I remained behind until the last to do it."

Faramir shudders at that, for he remembers too well the Shadow swooping overhead, the screams of malice echoing in the night...Èowyn is not the only one who dreams dark dreams of the Witch-king of Angmar. He wonders sometimes if she truly realizes just how dread a creature she defeated, or how grievous was the damage he dealt before he was felled by her hand. Armies fled before the Black Captain, but not Èowyn of Rohan. He does not wonder that it cost her dear.

But that is a subject for another time, and Faramir is taking too long at this, delaying the main. He shrugs a little and reaches for his goblet again, taking a sip. "At some point I was hit by a dart, one marked with poison, though Lord Aragorn told me later it was days of fighting the Black Breath that did the greatest damage. At any rate I was brought back into the city unconscious and fevered, and then--" He breaks off abruptly, takes a breath. "I told you of it, I think. For near on a day my father sat by my side, saying nothing, giving no orders, waiting only to see if I lived or died. Then he regretted his actions, regretted the things he had and had not done. Only then, when I could not see or hear him, or know of it. The defense of the city he neglected, giving himself entirely over to despair. And despair took him indeed, despite all his iron will and sternness and strength."

[withoutswords]

She is quiet for a moment, her eyes resting on his chest, watching it swell with his breath. "You have thought about it," she says slowly. "But it is only something you would not mind?"

For that is...disappointing, truthfully, and does not seem to match his claim that he is impatient. Much less that he is as impatient as she is.

2/2

[whattheydefend]

Faramir lifts the goblet again, then sets it aside, pushing it away and looking at nothing in particular in the room. "All that I knew, or most of it. That and nothing more, until I woke here and learned that my father was dead and I was now Steward, against all expectation. Any questions I have asked have gone unanswered, either because those I asked did not know the answers, or because they feared to tell me until I was more recovered."

His eyes close, as though the weight of knowledge is too much for them to bear. "Whatever the reason, whether belief in my doom or despair over the course of the battle--or some other fell reason, and I have my suspicions--my father's reason broke. He called for men of the household and bid them carry me to the Silent Street, to the House of the Stewards, where all our line have been buried for as long as we have served the Empty Throne. There he called for wood and oil to be brought, that he might build a pyre and burn us both on it, that father and son might leave the world together. And they obeyed him."

He opens his eyes but does not look for her reaction. He cannot. The words spill out with terrible slowness but also terrible force, unstoppable, blood seeping from a wound. "Had it not been for Mithrandir, and for a guard of the citadel named Beregond, and above all for Pippin, he would have succeeded in his aim. But Pippin ran for aid, convinced Beregond to abandon his post--a deed which will mean his death if he does not return from the battle, or if the king is not merciful. Beregond fought my father's men long enough for Mithrandir to arrive, but--"

His voice breaks. He lifts his free hand and runs it briefly through the candleflame, which flickers between his fingers, kissing them with warmth. The heat is greater above the fire rather than inside it, but on an oiled pyre the flame would have been enough. More than enough. As it was. "Mithrandir pulled me from there. My father...could not be swayed. He laid himself down and lit the flame, ruling his own end when he could rule nothing else. All the building is gone now, nothing but ashes and ruined stone. As is he."

The last words are spoken so low as to almost be unheard. He went to see the remnants himself, to see the corpse of the House of the Stewards since there is nothing left of his father's body to make farewell to; but no farewell could be made, and no peace could he find in his wanderings this evening, not with this new knowledge dogging his footsteps. Faramir's hand trembles where it holds hers, not from cold but from terrible grief.

whoohoo!

[whattheydefend]

Faramir is a patient man.

He has waited a year, and a long year it has seemed, filled with diplomacy and politics and settling Gondor into accepting Aragorn's rule. Necessary work, and in other circumstances satisfying, but not when one's beloved is out of reach while never being out of mind.

He has waited a week since he arrived, counting the days until this one, counting the nights, enduring teasing and ceremony and exuberance and all the while having Èowyn near, but not so near as either wishes.

He has waited between stolen moments of kisses and embraces, passionate and unbridled and far, far too brief, all of them, always aware that Èowyn is both as impatient as he is and less cautious, so he has tried to be restrained for them both while having very little desire to be so.

He has waited all this day, through trothplighting and feasting and dancing, all the while watching only Èowyn, finally his wife, his wife, and counting the minutes until they could safely abandon the rest of the festivities, knowing she was doing the same.

Faramir is a patient man, but there are limits.

So when he does walk down the hallway and enter the room--their room, for this night--he pays absolutely no attention to his attendents, or to hers, or to what she is wearing, magnificent though it is. He simply walks straight to Èowyn and kisses her, one arm going immediately around her waist and the other pressing to her back so he can bury a hand in the waterfall of her hair. There are amused chuckles and giggles and even a few envious sighs from those watching from outside the doorway, and he cares not a whit. All his attention is for Èowyn, and everyone and everything else can kindly leave them alone, thank you very much, because he has been patient long enough.

Which they do, and only once the door has closed behind him--or maybe a few minutes after--does he cease kissing her, breaking apart only far enough to smile. "Èowyn." Joy is written in every line of his face as he looks at her, caressing her face and brushing hair back from her forehead. "Are you content?"

[shieldofrohan]

"I have always thought well of thee." She closes her eyes, feels the cool of his forehead against hers. "Even when I was angriest, even when I thought I might hate thee for leaving, I never thought ill of thee. Théoden King could have no better successor."

She lets herself drop heavily back against the pillows, and with a great effort - for it feels heavier than lead - raises her hand to touch his cheek.

"Go, then. And I will watch for your return, as all Rohan must." She takes a long, shivering breath, and manages a little smile. "Good fortune ride with you. It is much needed."

[freo]

There's such intensity in his eyes, Eowyn thinks, before she thinks nothing at all, his lips smothering her sharp intake of breath as he grasps her close and kisses her; unheeding of their audience. She forgets them as well, and their titters and their sighs. Nobody else exists to her then but Faramir, and she clings to his strong shoulders for dear life as she kisses back, inexperienced still but making up for it with sheer enthusiasm and passion.

There are such hidden depths to her new husband; his genteel and gentle mien and manner hiding both steel and passion, and she rather pitied the fool who made the mistake of underestimating Faramir. A warrior and poet both, he was, and that combination has yet to cease intrigueing Eowyn. She can hardly contain herself at the thought of finally learning him fully, in their marriage bed, quivering in his firm embrace at the force he extends over her. A helpless little noise of enjoyment escapes her, lost in the press of their lips.

She's breathless once the kiss finally breaks, spelling out their desire and longing with nary a word. Leaning into his touch, she catches her breath softly and smiles back beautifically. Gone are the days of her melancholy and woe, sorrow and regret; before him stands a young woman radiant with happiness and anticipation for the days to follow, just as a new bride ought to be.

"Content? Nay." She laughs softly. "That is too small a word. I am... so happy it fills my heart to the brim." Expression gentling with affection and love, she too brings a hand up to cradle the side of his face. "I have no words to describe how wonderful it feels, and I know not how I ever lived without this. You have given me such joy this day I feel as if I am dreaming! For can something so wondrous truly be real? And yet, I know it is so. Because it is you, and you will always be true to me, in all things."

NOPE not unless DW behaves

[withoutswords]

She laughs again, skillfully dodging out of reach and tapping his nose. "I can barely yet imagine the first, much less those who may follow! It is still little more than a daydream, for all that has been upsetting my mornings."

[rednightfall]

That is too practical a reason for him to dismiss. For all that he was not the heir, and has only recently felt the constraints that come with being royalty, he is hardly ignorant about the expectations that come with noble weddings. In her land more than in his, but in the Riddermark as well. And especially in times of war, or just following war, it is well to make alliances where one can.

Her last sentence, however, earns her a raised eyebrow. "Do you truly think I would have kissed you as I just did if I did not like you?"

[theywhowait]

"Well." He murmurs. "I would very much like, is probably more accurate. But I am trying to be mindful of both our positions. You do tend to make that very hard, Eowyn!"

MY HERO

[theywhowait]

Considering he is reluctant to actually leave her lap, this is not hard!

He pouts at her for the tap, but his eyes smile.

"True. Early days yet! But you know me, Eowyn - I am a dreamer, and this dream is a very good one."

[leftbehindthesea]

Lothiriel is spoilt, the baby of the family. But she knows her duty, and always has.

She sniffs at him.

"Well considering how you've been behaving earlier...."

[rohirrims]

[ So sorry for the long delay! I've been thinking it over, and maybe we should do a scene that takes place in the future? Maybe Eomer visiting her in Ithilien and she shows him around and he gets a sense of how happy she is now? ]

[withoutswords]

That is better, but Eowyn still looks untowardly serious. "If you would rather I did not..." She trails off, then gathers herself and tries again.

"If you would rather I did not press you quite so much, then I will not." She flushes a little. "While I said before I had not thought that far ahead, it would be more accurate to say I had not planned so far, for I have certainly thought of it, and often. But I would not plan such without your knowledge and consent. I know I am...apt to get carried away, in the heat of the moment, far more than I ever thought I would during the months we were parted. But I can be restrained if it is needed, if you truly believe our positions and honor call for it."

She would not be happy about it, it is obvious, not when their time together is so short and has been so hard won. Half a year remains until they can be wed. But she likes the idea that she has pushed him more than he wishes even less, and the feeling that she does not know what he wants almost as little.

[freo]

A suicide mission. Was Steward Denethor mad indeed? It is very much starting to appear so to Èowyn, impotent fury licking at the corners of her mind at his treatment of his second-born. She no longer cares so much that she ought to have respect for the dead. What father would ever bemoan aloud that one son lived when the other died, thus deeming the living less important than the dead-- less loved? She cannot fathom it.

For all that Faramir has every right to apply it, she loathes instantly that bitter smile that flickers across his expression, for it ill suits him-- more so when she has seen him smile in comparison. Èowyn betrays no sign of discomfort when his hand tightens around hers, a little too hard perhaps. She only draws in a slow, measured breath between parted lips that still resounds audibly in the quiet of the night, when Faramir speaks of the things he would himself tolerate and accept to spare his troops. She has never doubted the love his men bear for him, for to her it has long now seemed he is the sort that inspires loyalty and respect in the men he commands-- but here, it is painfully evident the feeling is mutual, and that it deeply pained Faramir to knowingly take those men out, knowing they were riding to their deaths.

And for what? To try to reclaim an outpost overrun, taking on the impossible? And all at the behest of a madman nobody could or would oppose.

It is a cold shiver that slithers down her spine when he accounts the dread of the Witch-king, echoing his shudder as her arm aches in remembrance. The unearthly screams of their fell beasts ring in her ears still, as well, pierce her dreams; just as the hiss of the Black Captain's menacing whispers do. Èowyn recovers from her own recollections just as Faramir continues the tale, taking a bit of grim satisfaction knowing that at least none would ever have to suffer the menace of the wraith again.

She sits, still and silent as a statue, as Faramir goes on, recounting this sad story of his. It visibly pains him; bearing down on him and wrapping about him like a tangible thing. Had Èowyn thought Denethor a madman, is pales in comparison to what Faramir is about to tell her next, so staggering a matter she could never had foreseen it. "Any questions I have asked have gone unanswered, either because those I asked did not know the answers, or because they feared to tell me until I was more recovered." At those words, that ill foreboding she had felt earlier in her chambers when she was jolted awake from a dream she can no longer remember returns, filling her heart with unease. She knows something is coming that she does not wish to hear, sending her pulse skittering.

He closes his eyes, and tells her; that dreadful, terrible truth of the matter, how his father had lost all reason and sought to burn both himself and Faramir alive.

It shocks her to her core, and pains her in equal measure at the same time. Her vision blurs with tears, witnessing Faramir's silent agony. "And they obeyed him." "No..." she whispers in anguish on the heels of the revelation, in a voice so thin it is barely audible. How could this be? How could those men have obeyed such orders so blindly? She feels like screaming, railing against the madness and injustice of it all. Pippin and Beregond-- she would forever remember those names, the only souls brave enough to understand such a thing was not to be suffered. She watches Faramir toy with the candle through blurry eyes, tears welling but not falling as he draws the story to its tragic close that robbed him of his remaining family-- and through Denethor's own hand, no less. How bitter, how horrific! To burn himself from his life... Èowyn would pity Denethor if his actions, caused by madness as they were, would not have endangered Faramir so recklessly.

Faramir's grief is almost tangible now, and he looks so broken. But how can anybody blame him? How could fate deal him with such a lot? It was not fair-- someone so kind and good did not deserve such. Èowyn shuts her eyes tightly; her tears finally slip free, one clear drop sliding down each cheek. Sucking in a sharp, short breath in what is almost a sob, Èowyn does not stop to think, but simply acts from her heart. The hand of her broken arm still held in Faramir's trembling grip, she lifts the other to throw gently but swiftly around his shoulders, mindful of his healing injury, her chin slotting over his opposite shoulder as she scoots closer still and draws him into an embrace. Decorum, propriety; all thoughts of those have gone out the window in favor of comfort and sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she whispers raggedly, sniffing. Those small, paltry words could never be enough, but they are all she had to offer. "I am so sorry, Faramir."

I'm a mom, withholding treats until good behavior happens is part of the job. ;)

[withoutswords]

Eowyn laughs at the expression on his face and resumes playing with his hair. "Early days indeed, my love," she says wryly. "To dream of the third generation when the second has not yet made an appearance. It is a good dream, but lacking a little in practical details."

Clearly, she is the pragmatic one of the pair of them.

[whattheydefend]

He starts a little when Èowyn wraps an arm around him, surprised by the sudden, swift gesture. But then the liquid timbre of her voice catches his attention, and he pulls away just enough to look at her face. The tears are there, unquestionable, wholly unexpected even after so dire a tale.

Faramir's expression is almost bewildered as he lifts his free hand and brushes a few of the drops from her cheek, less a comforting gesture and more as though he is ascertaining their reality.

Only after seeing that they are, that Èowyn, with all her pride and despair, with all her own horrors to carry, Èowyn is weeping for him...only then does he let out a low, shuddering gasp and pull her into an almost crushing embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. His eyes are clenched shut, and his shoulders shake, but he still has no tears. She will have to weep for them both, for he cannot, not for a pain so deep as this.

[freo]

Some sense breaks through her distress and at first, Èowyn thinks she may have overstepped. Gondorians were more stringent about these things... but then, he looks so taken aback by her tears that it makes her want to weep more. Is it such a strange and foreign thing to him that she might grieve with him, and for the things he has had to endure that nobody should?

Faramir's embrace is a little too tight when he finally gives in, his despair overriding the consideration that normally tempers his strength, but Èowyn only holds onto him firmer in return. He is shaking like a leaf in the wind in her arms, and yet he has no tears to shed-- somehow, that is sadder to her still than anything that came before. That such basic device of grieving has been robbed of him, as well. If she must, then she will shed those tears for him; it is the least she can do, in this instant having no trouble setting aside her own pride and ails.

The darkness adds to her boldness, too, daring to do such things as she would not think of in broad daylight. Under its comforting shroud with only the moon as their witness, this meeting is something akin to their own secret. She lifts her hand from his shoulder where her fingers bunch into his tunic to slowly -- and a little gingerly at first -- stroke his hair as if he were a child, though nothing could be further from the truth. She realizes vaguely she's murmuring something soothing in a low, watery voice, most of it possibly nonsense, her Westron sprinkled with an errand Rohirric word or phrase throughout.

[theywhowait]

He considers that carefully.

"Tis not that I mind that you press." He says thoughtfully. "Indeed, it is a terribly nice boon to my ego that you think of me that way. Were we anything other than what we are, I would likely have bedded you already! I think you know how close my control has skirted at times. You are beautiful Eowyn, strong and wild and free. I feel forever lost when I look at you, and to see you look at me the way you do... it taxes my control sorely. But we are as we are, and people... talk. I do not wish that for you."

dreamwidth had better shape up then!

[theywhowait]

"But just think!" He grins up at her.

"One day in the long distant future, you and I will be grey-haired and old, and sitting in this same spot, and around us will be our family. Who will, I hope, all have your lovely hair!"

[whattheydefend]

Faramir has no idea how long he sits thus, how long she holds him through what seems a storm of silent anguish. For the first while he is not aware of anything save grief: for the father whose love he never saw, for the loss of the lord he admired and revered, for the breaking of reason and the foul strategems of the enemy that set friend against friend, servant against servant, father against son. For all dark things.

But darkness does not last, as Faramir has pointed out to others before, and gradually he calms and thought returns, and with it awareness. Eowyn holds him without flinching, strokes his hair and murmurs quietly in her own language. Absently he takes note of the words, more gutteral than Sindarin and yet with a music in them, and wonders what she is saying, beyond something meant to soothe an unquiet mind. When was the last time any comforted him thus?

When was the last time he was free to seek comfort or show weakness? Not in front of those who call him Captain, who rely on his strength; not in front of his father. Not since Boromir left, perhaps. But while Boromir would have understood and shared the pain of this, his brother could not have eased his heart as Eowyn does.

She smells like lavender, clean and sweet.

Gradually his grip on her loosens; he is a little shamed to have clung to her thus when she is recovering from an injury, though she does not seem pained by so close a hold. He does not wish to let go of her at all, would as soon sit here and hold her and be held until the world's end, whether that is soon to come or Ages from now.

But he must and does, slowly and with reluctance. He looks more like himself when he pulls back to look at her face. Still sorrowful, for no grief can be dispersed immediately, but able to carry it. "Thank you." The words fall quietly in the candlelight, in this intimate, timeless bubble in which they sit. His eyes say more than that; hopefully she will be able to read them. Some gratitude cannot be fully expressed in words.

damn right. Mamma don't take no mess. ;)

[withoutswords]

"My lovely hair, which by then will be grey and perhaps falling out?" She laughs again, for his grin is impossible for her to resist, as he knows. Not that she tries very hard. "No doubt you will again have jam on your face for me to clean off, and all the grandchildren besides, who will all share your smirk and love of teasing their poor, aged grandmother, who will keep telling wild, impossible tales of how she once slew a dwimmerlaik."

She can jest about it now, sometimes; in such circumstances, with Faramir.