The game he teaches her is simple and silly, indeed, but Éowyn hardly minds. It is actually a pleasant diversion from everything else, and they play several hands, each taking turns winning and losing. She enjoys the artlessness of spending time with him like this; he is not the Steward of Gondor and she is not the sister of the King of Mark. They are simply Faramir and Éowyn, playing a game intended for children and speaking easily of fond memories, laughing and smiling.
And if at times their gazes meet and hold over the table for longer than necessary, well.
Time passes almost too swiftly and the hour grows late; late enough, eventually, that even the open door won't save them from ill gossip, the passing servants having already given them curious enough glances from the hallway. Reluctantly, Éowyn bids Faramir good night, eyes soft when he takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles in farewell. Against all odds, she goes to bed that night feeling... content.
Such contentment is torn from her the next day, faced with the hard reality that morning in the gardens. The sun is hidden and dull grayness blankets the world, so very dreary. It has grown cold-- and silent, so eerily silent. A hard, chilling wind had risen from the North and kept hammering the City, merciless. The starry mantle about Éowyn's frame is normally warm, but now she shivers under its luxurious weight as she stands by the wall, gazing out into the hard wind and toward the faraway land where their fate would be decided. She feels it in her gut; today the world stands on a brink, on a knife's edge.
She feels Faramir's presence beside her rather than sees or hears it, eyes peeled above the mountains where the sky is clear and hard and foul. Would that this day were like the others earlier, where they stood together by this wall and walked about the gardens, and spoke of things they have not confessed to any other. But it is not. There is no postponing fate any longer, for good or for ill. Éowyn finds she is unexpectedly frightened by the prospect.
"Must they not now come thither, the Black Gate? It has been seven days since he rode away." Her brother, or lord Aragorn-- it is uncertain as to whom she talks about specifically.
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timeasmymeasure
timeskip it is!
Date: 2018-11-08 10:03 pm (UTC)And if at times their gazes meet and hold over the table for longer than necessary, well.
Time passes almost too swiftly and the hour grows late; late enough, eventually, that even the open door won't save them from ill gossip, the passing servants having already given them curious enough glances from the hallway. Reluctantly, Éowyn bids Faramir good night, eyes soft when he takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles in farewell. Against all odds, she goes to bed that night feeling... content.
Such contentment is torn from her the next day, faced with the hard reality that morning in the gardens. The sun is hidden and dull grayness blankets the world, so very dreary. It has grown cold-- and silent, so eerily silent. A hard, chilling wind had risen from the North and kept hammering the City, merciless. The starry mantle about Éowyn's frame is normally warm, but now she shivers under its luxurious weight as she stands by the wall, gazing out into the hard wind and toward the faraway land where their fate would be decided. She feels it in her gut; today the world stands on a brink, on a knife's edge.
She feels Faramir's presence beside her rather than sees or hears it, eyes peeled above the mountains where the sky is clear and hard and foul. Would that this day were like the others earlier, where they stood together by this wall and walked about the gardens, and spoke of things they have not confessed to any other. But it is not. There is no postponing fate any longer, for good or for ill. Éowyn finds she is unexpectedly frightened by the prospect.
"Must they not now come thither, the Black Gate? It has been seven days since he rode away." Her brother, or lord Aragorn-- it is uncertain as to whom she talks about specifically.