faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

The sky is clear above them, a cool breeze blowing over the lofty walls of the Houses as they come to a stop. Èowyn closes her eyes against it and inhales deeply as Faramir's words sink under her skin. She's suddenly struck with longing for the open plains of the Mark and the scent of grass carried along the wind, but all she smells now is a hint of acrid smoke and decay of battle. It is fitting. What homecoming is there for a deserter?

"Poison ran through me long ere the Witch-king's shadow ever fell upon me. This, I know," she whispers and opens her eyes. Gríma's tainted lies had stopped having a hold on her and influencing her thoughts. She saw clearer now just how deep his poison had really seeped, once free of his presence. She saw how he had made her scorn her House and the state of it, of her own place in it. And feels the fool to have succumbed to it, adding to the guilt roiling deep in her gut like some wild, living thing clawing at her for escape.

"It should be as I always hoped and dreamed. But nothing is. My uncle lies dead and my brother has gone without me. As you say, I have at last won such glory as to befit songs, I am crowned in valor beyond that which none other can achieve. Yet, it has brought me no joy, no hope and no healing."

Her voice is flat and desolate, her throat tightening uncomfortably and her broken arm twinging. So this is how it shall be now; she is to linger in wait, as hopeless as before. Perhaps being denied the relief of death was her punishment for deserting her people with such selfish, desperate abandon. "For all that I see that much clearly now, I linger on as if in some inescapable dream, as if sinking into a bog. I cannot turn back, and my feet will not walk on. There is no place for a deserter."

All the trips to the sickbeds wouldn't make a difference with such simple fact. Èowyn can hold Faramir's eyes only for so long before she has to look away, unseeing toward the horizon, tears pricking at her own eyes. As ever, his gaze is too keen, too knowledgeable, he sees too much. He extracts these secrets from her with such ease, just with that gentle glance and understanding alone. She should be angry, should resent it. But she doesn't. Why, she cannot (or will not) say.

"I know not the answer. Death and ruin may still come for us all, if the last Company fails before the Enemy's gates."

"Poison may be healed," Faramir says. "Come here, Èowyn."

He places a hand briefly on her back, guiding her towards a nearby wall. They face North, but he looks downwards at the rest of the city. The siege was but a few days ago, and most of the city is empty--the men riding East with the Captains, the women and children evacuated. But still some have remained, either to aid those who must remain for duty's sake, or to aid those who could not leave, or because they refused to abandon their homes. Most of those visible are older or younger, not fighting age, but all have one thing in common: they are busy.

Faramir gestures as he speaks. "See, there--that man on a ladder mending a roof, or that woman leading her donkey, or that merchant hawking his wares...they do not know you, will likely never do more than see you at a distance. But they live today because of your choices. For if you had not slain the Witch-king, the city would surely have been overrun." His eyes flicker to her face, then back to the streets below. "Your actions were not for nothing. You could not save your uncle, and I know how that must grieve you. But though the glory you sought is hollow next to that grief, it does not mean your victory is as empty. To me--"

He breaks off for a moment, his hand tightening a little on the rock wall, his eyes fixed. The man on the roof moves slowly but with precision, placing each plank of wood carefully and affixing it. "To me, the glory is not in the battle, but afterwards," Faramir says finally. "In the picking up of pieces after all seems broken. We must sing songs of valor, I think, for the horrors of war are very great. But what do we fight for, if not to make way for peace? That--" He nods his head towards the man on the roof. "That is the victory. Not a slain enemy on a field, but the rebuilding that follows.

"But before rebuilding, there must be healing, must there not?" Now he looks back at her. "Which takes time, and I think you have allowed yourself but little time for it, though your wounds were deep." He does not mean merely the injury to her arm. "Perhaps you will yet pay a price for your desertion of your appointed duty; perhaps you already do, in your awareness of it. I am not your judge. But you need not yet find your path. First you must build the strength to walk it when it becomes clear to you."

Edited 2018-08-30 23:07 (UTC)

Èowyn allows him to guide her to the wall, wondering at the purpose. When he calls attention to the few older men and women left in the city below, their tenacity astounds her. The way they toil seemingly unconcerned about the threat that still looms in the East, one that could still swallow them all whole. There is something almost defiant in it that pleases her, as if declaring to the Enemy that Men were not daunted; rather they would prevail and begin anew. And Faramir is saying it is due to her that all this is happening now.

She pinches her lips, frowning lightly-- not in displeasure, but deep in thought. She keeps her silence as she hearkens, turning every insight Faramir offers around in her head. These are points of view she has not considered thus far, feeling a hint of shame to have been so self-absorbed and caught up in her own woes.

You could not save your uncle, Faramir says, but then Èowyn thinks back on those last moments on the battlefield. I will save you, she'd uttered to her uncle through her tears, like a child scared of the inevitable; in that moment, maybe she had been. Théoden had seen her plight, even through pain of approaching death, and smiled gently for one last time. You already have. His death was not void of valor, thanks to her. Théoden King would go to the halls of his forbears with honor and acceptance, with joy, even, to see his family once more. Should she not remember this, despite the grief caused by his loss?

But it is difficult. She knows what Faramir says makes sense, but it is so difficult to see a clear path through the dull fog that seems to hang over her, obscuring much. Those accursed tears blur the edges of her vision, and she looks away; down to the city, those lone figures going about their day. Rebuilding and healing, in their own way.

"Perhaps that is so," she finally says quietly, and it could be in response to any of the points Faramir raises-- or all of them. She wipes a lone tear off her cheek that finally slips free, but no more fall after that. Drawing in a breath, she places her palm on the cool stone of the wall beside her instead. Perhaps one day, her Winter will give way to the warmth of Spring. Faramir is right. There is no other cure but time.

"You have a way with words, man of Gondor." Almost a tease, well-meant; the smallest of smiles curves at Èowyn's lips at it, albeit a tired one. He speaks as eloquently as any bard or a scholar, at times, but she well knows he is a warrior, too. It's an interesting duality, one she isn't used to in a man.

He resists the urge to wipe the tear from her face, resists any impulse to comfort or console, and instead lets her think in silence. It is enough that she considers these ideas, which are clearly new to her.

It is enough if he can offer any distraction from her desire to change her state with her uncle's.

At her compliment--entirely unexpected--Faramir flushes a little, then laughs. "Had I my choice, I might have been a scholar rather than a soldier," he admits, a little rueful. "And am often told that I go on at too much length. If you find it so, do not fear to stop me! You would not be the first to do so."

Something softens a little in Èowyn, in her expression and deeper within both, at Faramir's explanation. He would rather study tomes than wage war, and she would rather wield a sword than mind the house. What a pair they were!

It suddenly occurs to her that perhaps, then, he does know a little something about how it is like when one is denied of their wishes, after all. How strange that is to think.

"Nay, I do not mind it." She's quick to reassure with a little shake of her head, and it is the honest truth. "You do not speak simply to hear your own voice." He may speak at length, but it is always with purpose and wisdom. But now she is curious once more, wondering after a moment, "Did duty not spare you for such studies?"

Was it the former Steward's will to have both sons guarding Gondor's borders, rather than while away in libraries? In these dark times, it would not surprise Èowyn.

Faramir shakes his head, still wearing that faintly rueful smile. "Rarely. I am a son of the Steward, and our lives are given to service, to Gondor and the empty throne. As a child I was found in the library more often than not, but as I grew to manhood..."

He shrugs. "I had always known such duties awaited me. And fortunately I had Boromir, who was ever patient with a younger brother whose head was more full of lore than of battle tactics. With him as my teacher, such learning was more palatable. And for many years now I have commanded in Ithilien, where books are few and free time more scarce yet, with the Enemy ever testing our borders."

He looks at her with curiosity. "And you? How came you to take up the sword? For even in Rohan, shieldmaiden are not common, or so I had thought."

Èowyn listens closely, smiling a little when Faramir speaks of his brother with such fondness. When he questions her in turn, she pauses in thought as she wonders where to begin such tale.

"I did not grow up surrounded by many ladies. None, really, after my mother passed-- my aunt, the Queen, perished in childbed ere my own birth. There were nannies and servants, certainly, whom did what they could to raise a lady out of me." A small, rueful smile of her own makes appearance on her lips.

"Èomer and Théodred were my closest companions. I did not see myself as any different than the boys. Why should I not be able to do everything they could? My skirts were muddied to the knee daily, roaming outside after the lads. I believe my uncle indulged me some with this-- the only girl, a daughter to dote upon. And I took advantage, for I never had much patience for the more womanly pursuits. I knew nothing worse than being forced to sit still, stabbing my fingertips embroidering tiny stitches into yet another tapestry. What need was there of such a thing? I preferred the outdoors and any activity there-- riding, tending to the horses, hunting, gathering. Still, I was a noble lady and did not shirk my other lessons as I grew up, though they chafed at times. Not often, anyway."

In many ways, those were simpler, happier times, and Èowyn remembers them fondly with a small smile. But when she goes on, nodding her head slightly, it's with a sigh and a more wistful expression. "But you are right. There are no more shieldmaiden. We no longer roam as we once did, a cityless folk. Women now have the duty to mind the house and rear children, not fend off assaults and wage war. I was taught to fight in defense of hearth and hall and my own person, as any woman of Mark is. But I listened to the songs sung of the great Eorlingas of old, of the evil time in the days of Brego, son of Eorl, and the mighty shieldmaiden who fought alongside the Èored against the wild men of the East-- and desired that same valor and freedom."

"Perhaps my uncle indulged my wish to invoke the name of such old legend. I kept up the skill, though none would allow me battle itself. That remained the province of men. But are these now not evil times, too? With the fate of all Middle-earth at stake? Women might well ride as they did then, in defense of that which they hold dear. That is what I believed."

The rest of the tale, Faramir already knows.

He listens to all this thoughtfully, nodding from time to time. even smiling now and then. He would give much to have seen the girl he describes--almost he can, in his mind, wild and long-limbed and fearless, uncaring of anyone's judgement save those who she herself valued.

Her last sentence earns her a quizzical tilt of the head. "Is that still what you believe? Has your opinion changed, or does it remain the same?"

"I do," she says softly but with conviction after a moment. "Women with proper skill, as well as courage and desire to put that skill to use. Why should they not be allowed to do so, when all aid is needed? Would that be so terrible a thing? I do not believe them less capable than men, in this."

Her hand slides down the cool stone of the wall, and she deflates a little. "Alas, I realize such women are few and far between. Gondor does not teach their womenfolk ways of battle, I do not believe?"

"It does not," Faramir admits. "Which is perhaps a failing on our part. There are exceptions; my uncle Imrahil has, I believe, allowed my cousin to learn some of the basics of self-defense, though that may simply be so she can defend herself against three older brothers. But it is not so commonly done as in Rohan, from what you tell me of it.

"Still, you have more than proven your own point, by your own demonstration. No one can deny you that! And even without your example, I cannot think women less capable. Less strong, perhaps, but that could be amended with proper tactics. As for whether they should or should not..."

He sighs and looks back down towards the city. "I am conflicted on that point. The scholar in me can name other examples of women like yourself, and honors them. But the Captain is all too aware of the difficulties a mixed company would present on the field. Not during a battle itself, no, but during the times of waiting in between battles--and those times are many and prolonged. So I fear the answer is not so simple as we would wish it to be. Perhaps that is why shieldmaidens were solitary wanderers, rather than part of the military in an official capacity."

Edited 2018-09-01 22:01 (UTC)

"Three? Goodness," she murmurs with mild amusement, feeling a little sorry for Faramir's cousin then. She only has one older brother and sometimes that seems one too many! Pleased as though she is that Faramir mostly agrees with her, old, familiar frustration pricks at her bitterly when he brings up the troubles of a mixed company. Why was it that men were so greedy and lustful they allowed it to cloud their sense? Why were women punished for the weakness of men?

She knows it's uncharitable, in the back of her mind, but Wormtongue's memory is still too fresh in her mind.

But what did it matter? Èowyn is under no illusions that anything would change soon, when it came to this issue. It disheartens her a little, sighing a breath through her nose.

"I shall then have to make peace with the fact that I am to be the last of my kind." She's silent for a moment, before adding wistfully, "Perhaps one day, the children of the bloodline Èomer begets when he marries shall sing songs of Èowyn of Rohan, and the shieldmaidens will live again in the minds of future Eorlingas."

It's uncommonly sentimental of her, normally not given into such daydreams.

Faramir could have pointed out other difficulties; but he is just as relieved to let the topic step sideways from that point

"Are you so certain you will be the last? I doubt that very much." He looks at her sideways, a smile glinting back on his face. "On the contrary, I predict others will be inspired to follow your example, and not merely in the Riddermark. Though they will need to content themselves with lesser foes."

Edited 2018-09-01 23:44 (UTC)

Èowyn's smile is a mere tiny upward curve of the corner of her mouth as she returns his glance, slightly dry; as if to gauge first whether he's teasing. Soon, a fuller albeit lopsided smile stretches across her lips.

"Then I wish them well on their chosen path, and live in good conscience knowing they needn't face such foe as I did." Perhaps it's just words, appropriate for the sentiment she expresses, but for someone with such a deathwish to talk about living is... promising.

It is promising, and Faramir is much heartened by it, and more by her smiles. "As do I. And I shall hope for them to be encouraged in those wishes by their kin, as you were. I envy you that."

The words slip out unintended, and he looks faintly surprised, as though he would recall them if he could. Surprise fades into wistfulness, and he adds, in explanation, "My father was...less than pleased with my own chosen hobbies, little time though I gave to them as I grew older. It was a point of some contention."

Edited 2018-09-02 23:15 (UTC)

Envy her? The unexpected words draw a startled look from Èowyn at first, before she fully registers what it was Faramir actually said. A small frown knits at her brows, then. "Why?" she asks softly after a moment, a hint of compassion in her gaze. "Did he not see the value in learning lore and history in times of war and strife?"

That's the only reason she can immediately think of-- she'd always thought Gondor prided itself in the wealth of knowledge hidden inside the city's walls, in the grand libraries and the minds of its scholars both. Rohan could not claim such, the people of the Mark wise but unlearned, their history passed down orally rather than written on the pages of great tomes.

Faramir is silent for a long moment, looking out at the horizon. "No, not that," he says finally. "It was...a complicated tangle of things, I believe. We were never easy with each other. We were too much alike in some ways, and too different in others. He too knew much of lore and history, but his use of them he limited to Gondor's need, whereas I wished to learn all for its own sake. Mithrandir taught me much on his visits, which did not help, for my father has ever disliked and distrusted him. So worse than distraction, my love of lore made my loyalty suspect in his eyes."

Now he looks sad. "While he lived, Boromir was a bridge between us, for we both loved him dearly. Though there too was a part of it, for much as I respected my brother I was not his copy, and could not be. And my father would have been happier with another Boromir, rather than myself."

There is no blame in his voice as he says any of this, no shade of reproach; only quiet grief, and a look in his eyes that hints at deeper pain still.

"I see." Èowyn murmurs, the frown still furrowing her brows-- despite her words, she doesn't really see. Not truly. Though she can understand the former Steward's dislike toward the wizard, she cannot fathom him extending such mistrust to his own son as well. When Faramir's expression turns so palpably sad, she wants little more then than to reach out and grasp his hand in hers in comfort. Her fingers twitch as if rebelling against her better sense.

But then he goes on, and Èowyn inhales sharply in shock and affront. Yes, affront, she realizes; it takes her aback just how upset the thought of Denethor thinking so little of his second-born makes her. One is not supposed to think ill of the dead, but Èowyn can't help her indignation, though she does her best to tamp down on it. This is still Faramir's father they are speaking of, and she ought to rein in her temper.

"But... how could anyone possibly be unhappy with a son such as yourself?" she finally says, aghast. She finds that incomprehensible; Faramir is kind and wise, noble and brave-- surely no less than Boromir was, though she knew the elder brother not. Èowyn finds it difficult to picture a trait lacking in the man she's befriended in these Houses that would cause such censure from his father. "Your pardon, for I mean not to disrespect your father, but that is nothing less than a great injustice."

He has been leaning against the wall, his arms folded on top of it; at her protest he turns to look at her, surprised by her vehemence. "I am glad to know you think well of me," he says finally. "But I wonder if he was right after all. His belief was that I was disloyal to him, valuing Mithrandir's counsel above my lord's orders and sacrificing Gondor's need to my own vanity. Although I ever strove to do his will, long past the time I gave up any hope of earning his approval, yet he always suspected my judgement. And in the end perhaps he was right. For I made one decision that proved to be much against his wishes, one to outweigh all the others. And yet..."

He sighs and looks back over the city. "I could not have chosen otherwise," he murmurs. "I could not. Nor can I think mine was the wrong course, for all that it seems folly. But oh, my father!" Faramir bows his head, and his next words are near a whisper. "I would have given all the wealth I will ever possess for one sign of favor from him."

Edited 2018-09-03 21:02 (UTC)

Èowyn's confusion gives way to something akin to horror as she listens, lips parting in silent astonishment. Disloyal? Vanity? These are not descriptive of the man she's come to know during these days of shared convalescence! No, not in the least bit. To claim so is... is not only incorrect but malicious, to boot. She cannot fathom Denethor would think so little of his own son, one that by the sound of it only sought to do right by himself and his father both. Suddenly she begins to get a clearer picture of the relationship between father and son -- if only one side of the story, but it's enough for her -- and it frankly stuns and shocks her.

When Faramir bows his head and laments the loss of his father's love and approval, Èowyn's slumbering heart breaks. That someone this good and kind should be suffering so, gone neglected and disdained in such a manner by his own father? It's completely unbearable. He looks like a lost child, then, pale russet hair falling forth at the movement in a way that causes a fleeting urge in her to brush it aside with her fingers.

Her feet move before she realizes it, coming to stand close; closer probably than they have ever before. The pale hand of her broken arm comes up to settle on his shoulder in consolation, fingers tightening as much as they dare around the slope of muscle hidden beneath fabric, mindful of both his injury and hers. "If you say your choice was just, then it was. Your judgment is sound and your heart is in the right place. I needn't have known you long to perceive this-- even if I did not think so, all folk here have but kind things to say about you, Faramir of Gondor. Your people love and respect you."

Expression softening with sympathy and sadness, she pauses. "I know not what madness possessed and overwhelmed your father, for surely he must have loved you as well. I'm sorry he could not find it in himself to tell you that which any child deserves to hear."

They have walked arm in arm, but this is something else again, and he starts a little when she touches him. But only for the briefest moment. When she finishes speaking he reaches up and covers his hand with hers, meeting her gaze steadily, his eyes dark and intent. He stares at her for some time before making any answer, and when he does speak his voice is low with some deep emotion.

"You honor me with your compassion as much as with your faith in me, my lady." His fingers are calloused where they rest on the back of her hand, his skin darker, tanned by sun and weather. But his touch is gentle. "And I thank you for both."

It seems to Faramir that a long time passes while they look at each other thus, though it cannot be more than a few seconds. For him, the world has narrowed to encompass only Èowyn and that point of connection between them. It is a moment fraught with...not possibility, perhaps, but awareness. Something within him changes in those few seconds, a fundamental, unalterable change, and he knows it.

So be it.

It is he who breaks their locked gazes first, though it is a wrench to do it, and he takes a quick, sharp intake of breath once it is done. Almost awkwardly, he adds, "He did love me, I think, for all the difficulties between us in recent times. But our last parting was a poor one. I am told he regretted it in the end, and was by my side for many hours while my fever raged. I wish I could remember it."

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.

This time his glance is a sideways one, accompanied by half a smile, and not nearly so intense. "Words of wisdom from one who knows, and I will heed you. But, Èowyn--"

He frowns suddenly, standing up and looking at her in earnest, for he can see that she is cold. "Has no one thought to give you a cloak? Forgive our carelessness there!" He unbuckles his own at once, and holds it out to her. "Here; if you will, borrow mine until I can find you one more suitable." His mouth twitches a little, and he adds, "I promise it is clean."

"Oh, no-- I am not cold," she hurries to insist stubbornly, immediately foiled by another visible shiver. She bites her teeth to suppress an oath. Béma take it, her body betrays her at a critical moment; for she's bursting with curiosity to know what Faramir was about to tell her before noting her chills. If only she had one of her warm woolen dresses for home, and not this flimsy, borrowed rail... Faramir offers her his own cloak without question, and she can hardly turn down such a considerate gesture. Nor does she want to, truly.

"Thank you," she murmurs with a hint of a smile at his quip, her cold fingers brushing his as she accepts the cloak and begins to settle it on her shoulders-- though the process is somewhat awkward due to her healing arm and slightly numb fingers.

He merely raises an eyebrow at her protest about not being cold, which is so immediately put to the lie by the way she shivers. But she accepts the offer, and when she has difficulty he reaches out silently to help fit the cloak in place over her shoulders. Her arm is free of its sling, but still limited in its range of movements.

But settle it does, and while he is reluctant to cease even this small amount of contact, he pulls his hand away once more as he examines her. "It is as well that you are tall," he says, still wearing that half-smile. "Merry, I think, would be completely engulfed."

Èowyn murmurs her thanks anew when Faramir takes up aiding her with the cloak, looking down as a hint of color tints her cheeks at their closeness-- except this causes Faramir's hand to accidentally glance across her jawline just as he pulls it away, and Èowyn battles a befuddling wave of some emotion that crashes over her at the fleeting, unintended touch.

But she breathes a laugh at his assessment, helpless against her amusement. It serves to banish her momentary confusion, though she has to intentionally ignore the scent that clings to the cloak, something distinctly masculine.

"Being taller than a hobbit does not seem like much of a feat, does it?" She arches a brow as if in challenge, but soon goes on more conversationally, a small smile lingering on her lips, "Most Eorlingas are tall, but the descendants of Thengel and Morwen Steelsheen especially so. I remember her distantly, my grandmother-- and tall she was, indeed."

yes, good stuff ;;

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i was so antsy to get home and tag this ;;;

back at you ahhhhh this thread <3

ugh, right? ;;

ugh yes, also thank you for this useful set-up =)

it may have been intentional :3

Figured it was, and thanks very much!

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