Something flips in Èowyn's stomach at the touch, like a tumbling wave of butterflies taking flight. A faint quiver, too, lances through her when their eyes meet and hold. What is this, she can't help but wonder, caught unawares by the sensations and unable to look away. Neither can she withdraw her hand from beneath his; but the urge to do so does not even occur, oddly. Like hers, his fingers have calluses-- he's a bowman, Èowyn remembers distantly, the best in the land if stories are to be believed. But his touch is careful and gentle all the same; a warrior with such genteel nature.
She draws in a soft, shuddering breath as well when he breaks their eye contact after what seems like eternity, tingles running down her skin from head to toe. Shaken by the intensity of the moment, she reasons (not so convincingly) it must be the wind that has begun to buffet them up on these ramparts. And yet, she does not move away like she possibly ought to, her fingers squeezing his shoulder anew gently when he speaks.
"Then, that is what you must hold onto, even with no memory of your own of it. That though troubled, your father did love you and that he well remembered it in the end. Try not to recall him as he was during those evil times, though I know such things are hard to forget."
Here, she thinks of Théoden, decrepit, dimmed and nigh insensate on his throne for so long, caught up in Saruman's thrall. No! She will not remember her uncle as such, but leading the Rohirrim into battle against overwhelming forces on the Pelennor, glorious in his defiance and might one final time. She at least has that, a better memory to replace the foul; Faramir does not, and that only serves to prick at her heart anew.
"It may be of little consolation now, but it will get easier in time. Your wound is still recent and causing you too much pain." Now she does shiver properly, this time from the hearty gust that rises up and blows over them, tugging at her hair, the simple dress provided by the Houses to replace her own gear no match for the chill winds licking up the high circles of the stone city.
ugh, right? ;;
She draws in a soft, shuddering breath as well when he breaks their eye contact after what seems like eternity, tingles running down her skin from head to toe. Shaken by the intensity of the moment, she reasons (not so convincingly) it must be the wind that has begun to buffet them up on these ramparts. And yet, she does not move away like she possibly ought to, her fingers squeezing his shoulder anew gently when he speaks.
"Then, that is what you must hold onto, even with no memory of your own of it. That though troubled, your father did love you and that he well remembered it in the end. Try not to recall him as he was during those evil times, though I know such things are hard to forget."
Here, she thinks of Théoden, decrepit, dimmed and nigh insensate on his throne for so long, caught up in Saruman's thrall. No! She will not remember her uncle as such, but leading the Rohirrim into battle against overwhelming forces on the Pelennor, glorious in his defiance and might one final time. She at least has that, a better memory to replace the foul; Faramir does not, and that only serves to prick at her heart anew.
"It may be of little consolation now, but it will get easier in time. Your wound is still recent and causing you too much pain." Now she does shiver properly, this time from the hearty gust that rises up and blows over them, tugging at her hair, the simple dress provided by the Houses to replace her own gear no match for the chill winds licking up the high circles of the stone city.