faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

He welcomes the teasing, even if it is at his expense, and laughs aloud. "Oh, I think they would know where to correctly place the blame. Though you are right that we had better not risk the Warden's ire, lest he forbid us the outing we hope for, or Dame Ioreth's, lest we be at risk of never hearing the end of it." It is not a truly unkind gibe, for Ioreth herself acknowledges her tendency to go on at length.

It is a good look on him, that sort of earnest laugh. Èowyn finds herself smiling just because of the sound of it.

"Indeed. I am doubly disinclined to upset the Goodwife for my part, as I believe Ioreth is coming to inspect my injury at midday." A time which was rapidly sneaking up on them, even as their trail brings them back to the Houses proper with each step. "I should be in poor position to escape her scolding, with her holding my arm hostage."

Perhaps she ought to ask the madame if there was any hope of acquiring a raiment made of sterner stuff than the gown she is wearing now, in preparation of this possible outing of theirs; or even so as not to catch a chill up on the walls where Faramir and her seem to end up so often on their walks.

"Then by all means let us maintain their good opinion." The Houses have come back into view, and Faramir is both glad and sorry to see them. This has been a most unexpected morning, and will require much thought--and yet he is reluctant to let it end.

But time passes all the same. He refuses to let her return his cloak, instead asking her to keep it until he can find her a better--and he already has an idea along that line. They share their midday meal with Merry, as seems to becoming habitual, for the hobbit too misses his friends and is in need of distraction. Thus they all comfort each other and are comforted themselves, in the guise of good natured company.

Afterwards Faramir excuses himself, for he has work that cannot be delayed even for his own recovery; Hurin of the Keys has charge of the city for the moment, but there are many matters requiring greater attention or approval, and they meet every day. This time, when Hurin leaves, he has an additional charge, and if it causes him no small amount of speculation...well, Faramir trusts he will keep it to himself.

Afterwards he meets with the Warden, who declares that he is healing well but should not take on too many of his burdens yet, to which Faramir smiles ruefully and shrugs, for in truth such responsibility is unavoidable. Who else may bear it, and how can he in honor turn his back on the needs of the city, or of Gondor? They are his, however unexpectedly they have come into his hands, and until the king reclaims them he will do his duty as best he may.

So he works, his quick mind going through figures and cargo movements and evacuation routes, and all the while in the back of his head is the thought of Eowyn's hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her fingers, the color of her eyes.

After such intense morning where so much was said, it does them both good, Èowyn thinks, to spend time with Merry, share a meal and talk of lighter topics. She's loathe to see Faramir go, she realizes, even if she understands his duties cannot be postponed. She watches him go perhaps for a moment too long, judging by the knowing smile on the hobbit's face when she finally turns back. She ignores it, drawing Merry into conversation about the Shire instead before it is time to see Ioreth about her arm.

Later on, she admits she finds herself hoping Faramir might return for another walk, before it is time to retire-- but he does not. Reminding herself he is the Steward now with more important things to attend to than one lonely woman, Èowyn goes to her quarters and spends a few candlemarks reading before turning in; a pastime she has not had the chance to indulge in since before Théoden's illness. Even if the books she finds in her room are rather frivolous poetry, she still enjoys them well enough.

She falls asleep remembering not her own misery or the looming threat of Mordor, but the intensity in Faramir's eyes as he looked into hers and the sound of his laughter. And for the first time since being awoken from the dark sleep of the Black Breath, Èowyn rises from bed the next morning with happy anticipation instead of dull resignation, remembering yesterday with a private smile as she waits for a maid to bring her breakfast and aid her in getting dressed.

Faramir is not idle in his absence. Neither is he laggard the next morning. He appears at Èowyn's door as the maid is clearing away the remnants of breakfast, knocking quietly despite the door being open. He bows his head courteously to the maid, who bobbles a curtesy back before leaving, and smiles warmly at Èowyn. "Good morrow, my lady. I see I come in good time."

Under his arm is a largeish parcel, well and carefully wrapped in protective cloth. He holds it out to her. "Here. I promised you a better cloak than mine, and thought of this one."

Èowyn isn't expecting a knock at the door once she's been made presentable and the maid is leaving with the breakfast tray. At the sight of Faramir there, her heart skips and then quickens its beats, galloping like a wild horse. She can't help but return his smile once they're alone. "Faramir. Good morrow to you."

But what is he doing in her quarters first thing in the morning? Not she is opposed... and when did she start thinking like that, she wonders? Her smile turns rather bewildered when he offers her the parcel he'd been carrying, Èowyn needing both arms to balance it. It's oddly heavy, but soft as well beneath the protective cloth. A better cloak?

"But... truly, you did not have to go through such trouble," she demurs, oddly embarrassed that she is so touched by his courtesy.

"It was no trouble," he assures her, still waiting in the open doorway and smiling. "I but remembered where it was kept and asked that it might be brought. Will you not open it?"

Still a little caught up in her own befuddlement over the impromptu gift, Èowyn can only give a small, helpless smile before gingerly starting to unravel the parcel. The plain, protective cloth falls away easily and suddenly, Èowyn is left holding an armful of the softest, midnight blue velvet that unfurls with dramatic flourish, spilling down to the floor from her grasp. She gasps sharply at the sight of it, the silver stars embroidered onto the mantle gleaming as if set there by the Lady Starkindler herself. Èowyn is struck speechless by its loveliness, the soft, luxurious weight of it.

It's altogether a queenly raiment, and she cannot wrap her head around the fact that Faramir is giving it to her.

"This is... lovely, and far too fine a thing. I--" she stammers, much to her chagrin. But surely, this is just a loan. He can't possibly mean to gift something this extravagant to her, a mere guest?

"Not more fine than the lady who holds it, he says quietly, looking at her and for once allowing his admiration to show, if only for a moment. "And surely the least Minas Tirith owes she who slew the Wraith. Also, it is rather more warm and in better condition than mine." He grins a little at that, to set her at ease.

She cradles the mantle in her arms, holding it to her chest and digging fingers lightly into its soft heft to keep them from trembling at the naked admiration that crosses his face, so quickly Èowyn wonders if perhaps she imagined it. Maybe it was merely a phantom reflection of the regard blossoming in her own chest, slowly but surely.

She breathes the faintest of laughs, barely more than a heavy exhalation, and looks down at the mantle in effort to hide the color on her cheeks. "I shall--" treasure it. "Take good care of it. Thank you."

Faramir thinks that a blush becomes her very well, though not so well as the cloak shall. "You are most welcome."

There is a moment's silence between them, then he seems to collect himself. "Ah, I come with another gift, which I think will be still more welcome. The Warden has granted us permission to travel up to the Citadel this morning, provided that we are most well-behaved--" Another grin. "--and return before midday, and promise to rest ourselves quietly in the afternoon. We may leave whenever you wish."

That brief moment of quiet awkwardness (on her side at least) is wiped away in an instant when Faramir reveals his second purpose in coming to see her this morning. Lifting her head, Èowyn's expression brightens with excitement and a broad smile illuminates her features -- for a moment, she looks her actual age, unburdened by all the unpleasantness of the past years that have bogged down her proud spirit. She barely hears the conditions the Warden has set down, focusing on the simple joy of their permission to go.

"Yes? Then let us go straight away!" she cries, oh-so keen to be away from the Houses if only for a little while. Quickly, she shrugs the mantle about her shoulders, managing a little better with it now in her eagerness to be on her way than she did yesterday with Faramir's cloak. "How does it look?" she asks once the blue mantle hugs her slender figure, gingerly working to close the clasp at her throat.

If Faramir had not already been aware of his own wishes, the way she lights up would have made them undeniable. For a moment she is radiant, to a degree that almost stops his heart with wonder. This is what Beren felt, he thinks distantly. This or something kin to it.

It is as well that she misses this reaction, busy as she is with unfolding the cloak and arranging it on her shoulders. He should move to help her, as he did yesterday, but reacts a bit too late. "Beautiful," he manages, his voice lower and more rough than usual. "It looks beautiful."

Almost painfully so. Sunlight teases sparkles from the fabric, and more from her hair, so that her whole figure seems to shine. Carefully he reaches out and takes the clasp, fastening it for her and nor daring to look at her face (or think of what expression he himself is wearing) as he does so.

Èowyn goes slightly dry-mouthed when he steps closer and takes over fastening the clasp, her ribs expanding as she draws in a slow, soundless breath between barely parted lips. She is not completely oblivious to those little signals between a man and a woman, even if not exactly experienced, either-- and lately not very inclined to know more, due to Wormtongue.

But this... this can hardly be compared. She thinks, by the roughening of Faramir's voice, that he is very pleased indeed by her appearance; and that in turn has another bevy of butterflies taking flight somewhere in the pit of her stomach. His reaction does not frighten or repulse her; if anything, it thrills her. Excites her, even-- and that is foreign ground to her, bringing with it confusion, also.

She murmurs another thanks once the clasp is secured, wetting her dry lips briefly with her tongue and managing a smile.

"Oh!" she issues suddenly, remembering something. Moving away, she fetches the cloak Faramir had loaned her yesterday. "You ought to find it in good condition, still," she says as she hands it back to him, a little teasingly to dissipate the sudden intensity between them. If perhaps there's a faintest hint of lavender clinging to the garment now, then... well.

She moves away before he can do something unforgivably foolish, for which he will be grateful later when his head is more clear. He lets out a small huff of a laugh at her jest as she returns his own cloak to him, and he immediately swings it over his own shoulders.

It smells like her. No; it smells like both of them, and that is a thought he pushes aside with utmost rapidity, or else he really will have no sense left with which to accomplish anything this day. And there is much he hopes to accomplish.

But he cannot resist teasing her a little in return, raising his eyebrow and smiling as he fastens the clasp of his own rather more worn green cloak. "How does it look?"

Edited 2018-09-07 21:06 (UTC)

Carefully, Èowyn pulls her unbound hair away from beneath the weight of the mantle, draping the mass of it over one shoulder while Faramir dons his cloak. His brazen return of her words draws a soft chuckle of amusement out of her, arching a brow right back at him.

"Why, it quite suits you, my lord," she replies almost demurely, a gleam of good humor in her eyes as she purses her lips against another smile. "Shall we be on our way then, as we are both now properly attired to brave the chill?"

No, she's not impatient at all to be away, why would anyone think that?

He laughs more openly at her impatience, and offers her his arm, a gesture fortunately now less fraught with intensity than it might have been even a few moments ago. "There was another condition made by the Warden, which was that we are not to walk all the distance ourselves, but to ride, lest we exhaust ourselves unduly climbing the steps to the highest level of the city. I assume that will not dissuade a lady of Rohan." His eyes twinkle at her a little.

She takes his arm gladly and without hesitation, arching her brow anew when Faramir lays down the Warden's condition. If anything, the thought of a ride is invigorating.

"You assume correctly," she says with a smile that twitches into what is nearly a smirk as she goes on, "If anything might dissuade me, it could be the quality of Gondorian horseflesh. We shall see in a moment."

It is entirely a tease, and a cheeky one at that.

Faramir attempts to look offended, and does not really succeed. "I'll have you know our stock of horseflesh comes from Dol Amroth, and thus is almost as admirable as that of Rohan. Almost."

Two can play at that game, and so they do, until they reach the horses provided for them for this (two solid, unexciting mares, steady and not unlovely but not a match for anything from the Riddermark). Riding up to the Citadel takes a little longer than walking would have, but not much, and it gives Faramir time to point out things of interest.

And to be noticed as an object of interest himself. He is dressed more formally than he has troubled with while keeping to the House, and is recognised and hailed by many as they pass. The White Lady of Rohan too is recognised by some, and there are even a few cries of "Hail the Wraithkiller!" Stories of her deed already circulate, a welcome victory to cling to while waiting for more dire news.

They pass the guards, who formally salute Faramir, who nods his head back to them. And then they are at the summit, and dismount in the Courtyard of the White Tree, which stands before the door to the Citadel, overlooking the rest of the city.

Not a match for the Mark's horses, no, but Èowyn does not shun them, happy to take a moment to greet her mare with scratches and a few murmured words in Rohirric, for it immediately puts her more at ease to be around the familiar beasts. She wonders what become of her own horse, desperately hoping Windfola escaped the tumult of battle and was looking out for herself, out there. Pushing such potentially dour musings from her mind, Èowyn takes to the saddle with the ease of a horsewoman despite her healing arm and long skirts. Thankfully hers is not a ridiculous sidesaddle like she'd been concerned it might-- Èowyn cannot for the life of her imagine how Gondorian ladies deal with those.

Their ride is leisurely, though she longs to snap the reins and gallop; of course that isn't possible on the streets of the city, but the urge burns in her breast nonetheless. That does not mean she enjoys the journey any less, listening closely to the information Faramir so graciously provides her about the city and its sights. Of which there are many; she thinks she has not seen so many statues anywhere before. It is a lofty place indeed, this grand stone city of ancient line of kings. With fortune, it would see a King returned to its throne again soon.

It does not escape Èowyn's notice the citizens look upon Faramir with such interest, for he cuts a fine figure indeed; but more than that, she sees respect and love on their faces. She had not been lying to Faramir when she'd told him he had both of those from his people. But some cry out her name, too-- or the title borne of her deeds at the battlefield. She thinks back to Faramir's own words to her, on what a difference she had made with her triumph, and smiles graciously. To think that some time ago, she had imagined lofty treatment like this, albeit as Aragorn's queen. She had wanted to share in his power and be elevated by it, but had she not now found power of her own, for all that the future is otherwise uncertain? As she glances askance at Faramir by her side, reconciling Aragorn's noble but grim visage next to Faramir's is difficult. Desires of being Aragorn's queen slip further and further every day; she begins to see it clearly now, her own folly of thinking admiration coupled with her desperation was love. How bitterly foolish, and embarrassing!

Thankfully they reach their destination before she can dwell too much on that, the highest summit of the city. The fabled White Tree looks lonely and shriveled out on the courtyard, showing still no sign of the approach of the return of the king. But the entrance to the Citadel is lofty indeed, far beyond anything Edoras has, and Èowyn can't help but gape a little when she has finally dismounted.

Faramir finds himself grateful for Èowyn's company for an unexpected reason. Beyond its own sake, she provides something of a distraction. It was one thing to know, to see from a little distance, of the damage sustained during the siege. It is another to see some of the results firsthand. Not for the first time, Faramir finds himself frustrated with the need to wait and recover in the Houses of Healing, for all that he himself counselled Èowyn that they would need to endure it with patience. But there is so much work to do. So much.

Assuming they will all still be alive in the coming weeks to do it--and he has planned for the possibility that the army marching towards the Black Gate will fail, has thought on practical measure of what would need to be done next. For someone must, howevermuch Faramir trusts and hopes it will not come to pass.

But he is glad of the distraction of Èowyn's company on this, his true return to the city he loves and defends. And now, at least for a time, holds in his charge. He watches her reactions closely as he tells her of it, and more as they reach the summit. It matters greatly to him that she should think well of Minas Tirith.

He smiles a little as he looks around the courtyard, as the cold winds bite at their faces. She looks stunned, and he can well understand it. "This is where I spent my childhood," he says quietly. "And a hundred times or more I have ridden from the city and returned, yet always I feel the same awe when I stand here."

Inexplicably, seeing more of Minas Tirith up close like this does well to dispel any lingering desire she may have had of being her queen. Not that the city isn't beautiful, steeped in history and grand beyond compare, for it is. Perhaps, it is even a little too grand for a child of the Mark. For the Eorlingas were creatures of simpler tastes and more practical ways; would she ever get used to dwelling in this city of stone? Èowyn knows well there are Gondorian lords who would take every opportunity to remind Rohan the lands they now call their own were a gift from Gondor, once upon a time. She cannot help but smile a little to herself, amused by the idea of those people suffering a Rohirric queen. But does she want it anymore, truly, to be the queen of this all? No, the answer comes to her, at length but utterly certain.

Drawing the blue mantle closer about her frame as the winds buffet them, warmed blissfully by its embrace, Èowyn nods her agreement. "It is very lovely, and very grand. Worlds away from anything we have in Rohan."

For a moment, she feels insufferably uncultured and unrefined in the midst of it all, dwarfed by the potent magnificence of the city, resplendent even in disrepair of the siege-- and feels all over again the certainty of her decision to renounce desires of being the queen of Gondor and Minas Tirith.

However... Èowyn glances discreetly at Faramir, seeing the love he bears for his home reflected on his face plainly. She could learn to dwell here had she a reason to, she is equally certain of that.

Faramir's expression too is a little wistful, for all its admiration as he looks around what must surely be a vista as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, and he shakes his head. His voice is more quiet, more confiding, as he answers her. "Lovely and grand, yes. And yet...awe rarely goes hand in hand with comfort. Or with peace."

His smile is a little regretful for a moment before he shakes his head and turns back to her, offering his arm yet again before leading her across the Court of the Fountain. "I should like to visit Rohan, and test your claim. I have heard tell of the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and often wished to see it; to me it has always sounded magnificent."

Èowyn makes no reply to that, though the look in her eyes is sympathetic. She can relate to such a sentiment all too well. Curving her hand over his proffered arm, she falls into step next to him.

"It is that, if in a very different manner than Minas Tirith." But perhaps that goes without saying, she realizes with a hint of embarrassment. She's quick to carry on with a small smile, "Perhaps you shall yet see it and judge for yourself, one day. I should be pleased to give you a tour, of the Golden Hall and Edoras both."

Perhaps it was a little presumptuous to say, but what of it? They could afford some lighter musings as these to tide them over the darkness.

"If we have the opportunity, be assured that I will take it, my lady." His smile is warm and untroubled again as he looks at her, and judging by his eyes it does not seem he believes there is any grace lacking in either Rohan or its people. "I can think of few things I would like more than to see the land of Eorl, the more so if you were my guide."

But they have reached the door of the Citadel, and once they pass through it he pauses with her, for now they come to serious matters. "You have expressed two wishes to me in past days, which may now be fulfilled if you desire. I had assumed you would first wish to see your uncle and confirm that he is resting in all honor with your own eyes. But if you would rather save that until the last, we may turn to the portrait hall first, and look on the painting of your kinswoman Morwen. Have you a preference?"

Shall we do another timeskip soon? He'd avoid more serious talk, they have a lot to think about.

yes, we can timeskip like... now? and move on, if you're good with that!

Yup. I actually have A Plan, if that's okay by you? To start the next day. ;)

sounds good! i'm going to let you take it away from the next day, then. :)

Woot! And of course you know what this is. ;)

yeeeesss insert deadcat emote here

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I'm so going to have to BS knowledge of Minas Tirith, realize

that's cool, so would/will i!

Writing this on phone la la should be asleep tra la some timeskip

have some more teel deer in honor of saturday

I love teel deers and wish I had more tag time on weekends!!

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