faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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?"

There it is again, that warmth in his gaze and smile both, that regard, when he looks at her. She should resent being made feel like some foolish girl with an infatuation -- again -- but there is no falsehood or different meaning in Faramir's words that she can discern. And though her own judgment in these matters has taken a harsh hit in the wake of Aragorn, she's more inclined to trust her own heart, now. Smiling with quiet pleasure, she ducks her chin as they enter the Citadel proper, but draws in a deep breath to prepare herself as Faramir draws them into a halt, turning solemn.

Each choice presents its own merits, and for a moment Èowyn hesitates in thought, glancing down at the main hallway opening in front of them as if to cast her eyes to wherever her uncle lies.

"May we look upon the painting, first?" she eventually requests quietly, perhaps slightly unexpectedly, turning her head to gaze at Faramir again. "I think I would like to see it without a fresh sorrow clouding at my eyes."

For she does not doubt that grief will mingle with gratefulness in her once more upon laying eyes on her uncle's body, as much as she has made her peace with his passing.

Her choice is a little unexpected, but he sees the wisdom of it and nods at once, turning them to the right down a hallway. It turns out to lead to a series of hallways, all of them made of the same white marble and laden with statues. Their footsteps echo as they walk.

Fortunately it is not too many turns until he opens a door until a room, one where all the curtains are closed, no doubt to protect the paintings within from being damaged by sunlight when they are not being observed. He goes at once to the window and begins pulling the curtains open, tying them back, until the room is brightly lit.

It is a dazzling display of paint. The contents are a variety of sizes, from small head-shots to wide scenes. All of them contain people, and nearly all of those are the ruling Stewards and their kin.

Faramir points towards particular portrait, of a lady from the waist up, her gown golden and her eyes serene and undaunted. Her dark hair seems to blow in an unseen wind, for all that the paint is motionless and long dried, and even fixed in place she has a feel of graceful movement to her. "There, that one. I have wondered how accurate a representation it was. What think you?"

So many statues! And they all seem to stare at them in stony silence as they pass, kings and stewards of times past. Èowyn thinks it feels a little foreboding, for all that these halls are as fine and lofty as the outside of the Citadel. Some strange coldness seems to cling to the whole house, reminiscent of Meduseld while Théoden was still unwell and Gríma had run of the place. It's good that Faramir guides her, for she thinks she would get lost here left on her own...

Èowyn suppresses a small cough at the musty air of the dark chamber Faramir lets them into, for clearly nobody has been here in a while. She wonders at the neglect, but soon has other things to think about once Faramir begins to pull aside the heavy curtains that block out the light of day. She waves a hand in front of her face slightly as the billowing curtains spill out some dust from their folds, fighting another cough for a moment.

"So many," she wonders aloud with some astonishment as light floods into the room and illuminates the arrays of paintings in all possible sizes, it seems to her. Then Faramir points out the one of Morwen, and Èowyn is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It is impressive indeed, and for a while she takes in the likeness of her grandmother in her prime in reverent silence, pondering the question.

"The artist has captured her grace, for she ever seemed to glide rather than walk, and age never bowed her proud frame. Though I recall she often appeared... troubled." Èowyn frowns a little, trying to remember more, but it was a long time indeed since Steelsheen last walked among the Eorlingas, and she a mere child then.

"She had such dark hair, even in her twilight years-- but her children were born with grandfather's fair hair, as far as I know. How queer she must have seemed to the Rohirrim at first, tall and ethereal. I wonder if she thought the same of her new home and people after Lossarnach? I could not say. Steelsheen, my folk started calling her for her beauty and pride. They came to love her, no matter how foreign at first."

Tall, beautiful, and proud...Faramir looks on Eowyn as she speaks and thinks the family resemblance very clear, though he has his own opinions as to which of the two is the more fair.

"Steelsheen...that suits her," he says, looking back to the portrait. Morwen's is a cool beauty, like the glimmer of light on a blade. "What troubled her, do you think? Living far from her own homeland? For that would, I imagine, be a difficult thing, even if your new people came to love you."

Edited 2018-09-10 15:26 (UTC)

"I think so, as well. Possibly that was one reason, and also the passing of my mother at such an early age. The loss of a child should trouble any parent, I imagine. Perhaps she also missed Thengel, who died some fifteen years ere my own birth."

She takes one last, long look at Morwen's painting, before the other ones lined up on the walls beckon, her curiosity aroused. Èowyn moves slowly, studying more noble faces and heads of dark hair-- sons and daughters of Gondor, of Dol Amroth, captured in paint. But then Èowyn stops in front of another painting, much like that of Morwen's, her breath catching a little.

For it is a painting of a beautiful lady of near elven grace, dark-haired and smiling gently-- and wearing the same midnight blue mantle on her shoulders that now rests upon Èowyn's. For certainly, there can be no mistaking the glorious garment. There's a familiarity in the lady's features, and instinctively she knows.

"Is this your mother?" she asks a little breathlessly, eyes still peeled on the painting. And what she really wants to ask is: Am I wearing her mantle?

Ah. Faramir hears the unspoken question as well as the one asked, and his gaze flits to the starry cloak on Eowyn's shoulders before he joins her in staring at the picture on the wall. "It is," he confirms. "Finduilas of Dol Amroth. She passed when I was but five." Another thing they have in common, he and Eowyn. They both know what it is to have a mother who faded from grief.

He raises a finger to trace the line of Finduilas' hair, though he does not quite touch the canvas. "My father never recovered from her loss, I am told, and that matches my memories of the time. He loved her most deeply." He hesitates, considering, but finishes. "He had that cloak made for her before she came here, for it is much colder in Minas Tirith than in the southern regions."

"She was very beautiful," Èowyn says quietly and with an edge of sadness, for it is true that they both know the grief of losing a mother to such soul sickness. And yet, her mind is abuzz with speculation, still reeling a little over the fact that Faramir had chosen to grant his mother's cloak for her to wear. It feels too intimate a gift, such an heirloom.

Faramir's hesitant addition confirms it. A lover's gift, then. Her cheeks tint with some color at the implication, some knot of emotion lodging behind her breastbone she finds difficult to untangle.

"Surely, my lord, your mother's mantle is too fine and precious a thing for me to wear like this." She bites her lip. How clumsy her tongue suddenly is! She does not wish to appear ungrateful, but... "Is there no Gondorian lady who might bear it?"

To her dread, she realizes she'd just asked him none too subtly if he was affianced. For a moment, she wishes the stones beneath her feet would open up and swallow her, save her from the mortification of her blunder. But just as swiftly, some of her old stubborn determination sparks in her; no, she would not take it back, but weather it as she must.

"There is not," Faramir says simply. He is silent for a moment, still looking at Finduilas's portrait rather than at his companion, before he continues. "If you truly feel it is too great a gift, I can find some other for you, if you prefer. But it has lain unused and packed away in a chest for decades, which seemed to me a sad waste of a beautiful thing. And I think my mother would be glad to know it now graced your shoulders."

Edited 2018-09-11 23:11 (UTC)

Èowyn remains silent as well for a long time, studying the portrait with him even as she turns over his response in her head. She had assumed there was no understanding between him and some another lady (though she cannot entirely understand why, surely he was a much sought-after prospect) but it is good to hear him say so aloud.

"Well. If you think that lady Finduilas would approve, then I can find no fault in wearing it," she finally says, though it is, of course, not the whole truth of the fact. But to speak of those would be improper, even for a practical Northerner such as her.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, and he keeps looking at the painting rather than turning back to her, hoping his relief doesn't show too greatly. If she had still insisted on returning the cloak, he must have taken it as a sign that she had no desire even for such small steps of courtship as he has taken. For her to accept it is...not a proof of favor, necessarily, but at least not a rejection. That is enough, for now. Given all the circumstances, given how much she has been through of late, that is more than enough.

The silence that follows is a little more awkward, one he finally breaks by turning and looking over the rest of the hall. "Is there anyone else you would see, while we are here? There may be a portrait of your grandfather Thengel as well, though of that I am not certain."

Èowyn draws in a slow breath at his soft thanks, taking a moment to look her last on Faramir's mother. Think well of me, lady, she bids in the privacy of her mind, though she's not entirely sure why she beseeches a woman long since dead, why it's important just then that she does. All she knows is that she's accepted something far more that a mere beautiful raiment in agreeing to bear this mantle at Faramir's behest; and the idea is not disagreeable, Èowyn realizes.

"Perhaps some other time," she decides after giving the suggestion some thought. For she has no memories of her own of Thengel, and though interesting as it might be to look upon his portrait, her thoughts now return to her uncle. Her expression grows somber when she adds, "For I think I am ready now to go see my uncle."

He nods, giving her his arm once more and leading her through the halls towards the throne room.

The Throne Room lies in the heart of the Tower of Ecthelion, a large, circular room ringed with tall pillars and many arches, and the ceiling several dozen feet high. The throne of the king is empty, of course, though kept ever in readiness; the throne of the Steward, which sits on the lowest of the great broad steps, is likewise empty, and Faramir averts his gaze from it. The idea of sitting in his father's chair is still inconceivable to him, for all that he is resolved to do his best as Steward.

It is easier to look upon the rest of the room. A bed of state has been placed in the center of the room, ringed with twelve torches and guarded by knights of both Rohan and Gondor. The bed is hung with green and white, the colors of Rohan, but cloth of gold covers the body of King Theoden to his breast. His hands are clasped on his sword, and his shield rests at his feet, and his face is peaceful. Faramir himself is comforted by the sight of it. Whatever happened to Theoden in recent years, he died calmly, content with himself and his deeds. May we all know such deaths, when our time comes.

The guards of Rohan clearly recognize their White Lady, judging by their eyes, but have enough discipline to not move or react at the sight of her, though something like joy pulls at their faces. Faramir smiles at them, and at the men of Gondor who show a similar relief upon seeing him.

On any normal day, she may take more notice of the grandeur of the throne room, the seat of the King and the Stewards. But as they enter the great room, all she sees is her uncle laid to rest upon a bier in the middle of it, his body awaiting to be entombed in the burial mounds in Edoras. If such chance, indeed, they will be granted. She stiffens a little, fingers tightening briefly upon Faramir's arm, sorrow etched upon her face once more. Releasing a tiny breath as if she'd been holding it, Èowyn gently slips her hand from Faramir's arm, mustering a small, sad smile as she glances briefly over at him.

Then she takes a step ahead, and another, striding slowly with her head held high inside the ring of torches circling the bed, coming to stand by her uncle. Finely and with all due honor Théoden has been laid to his rest, Èowyn observes, as a king should-- Herugrim, cleaned and polished to shine, lays clasped in his hands, crossed over his chest. He looks at peace and content in his forever sleep, and as much as Èowyn is heartened by it and a trembling smile comes to her lips then, so do tears well up in her eyes as grief and love mingle in her heart.

Setting a gentle hand on top of her uncle's cold ones, she leans down to kiss his cool brow one last time. "Ferthu, Théoden. Ferthu," she murmurs softly as she pulls away and takes a step back from the bed, wiping the tears that have slipped down her cheeks away. But she cannot leave just yet, standing silent vigil over Théoden's bier just for a moment longer.

Faramir stands back to let Eowyn make her farewells more privately, though there is deep compassion in his eyes as he watches her. If this brings her any peace, it will have been more than worth any effort it took to persuade the Warden of the Houses.

After she has stood in silence for some time, he moves forward and places a hand on her shoulder, to offer her what comfort he may.

She inhales deeply and closes her eyes for a moment, the slight tension about her shoulders relaxing under the gentle press of his hand.

"Thank you," she whispers then, sounding weary but grateful indeed. "For bringing me here."

"You are welcome," he says quietly. "I hope--"

"Lord Faramir!"

The exclamation echoes in the room, and is immediately followed by a greater clamor yet, as someone behind them drops whatever it was he was carrying. The sound reverberates unduly in the chamber, and Faramir whirls as though he expects some enemy to have appeared behind them, half-reaching for a sword he's not currently wearing. The guards too turn and reach for weapons, relaxing only when they see clearly who has spoken and that it is no threat to their charge.

The source of the commotion seems harmless enough: one of the many servants of the Tower, dressed in the livery of those who directly serve the Steward. But his face is aghast and pale under his dark hair, and he runs forward and kneels at Faramir's feet, taking the hem of his surcoat in his hands and kissing it while babbling in the version of the Elven-tongue that is spoken in Gondor. Faramir is hard-pressed to hear coherent words in the rapid, desperate cascade, but kneels himself and places his hands on the servant's shoulders, calling him by name in gentle, firm tones.

The man--who is young, younger than Faramir, and near tears--draws a heaving breath and speaks more clearly, still unable to meet Faramir's gaze directly. Faramir's eyes widen as he listens for a few moments, then he interrupts. More firmly he gives a few brief commands and stands, bringing the other man to his feet with him.

After a few more words the other man nods and salutes, returning to the side of the room to collect the items he dropped in his surprise and dismay, and departs in a swift walk that is not quite a run. Faramir stands silent for a moment, looking after him with a faint frown, the expression in his eyes unfathomable.

Èowyn whirls about too, gasping sharply as she's startled by the noise, her heart leaping in her chest; similarly for a brief moment, she thinks there is an attack, the urge to act -- to flee or to fight -- flooding her veins. But there is no such thing, merely a distraught servant hurrying to prostrate himself at Faramir's feet.

Théoden's court had been something of an anomaly in Rohan, for Sindarin was not unfamiliar a tongue there, thanks to Thengel and Morwen and their stay in Gondor prior to Thengel taking up the throne. But Èowyn's grasp of the Elven language is shaky at best, and the servant is very upset indeed. She cannot make out much. Is the man apologizing? For what? It is evidently a matter most serious, regardless of what it is, and Èowyn is left bewildered and concerned over the unexpected scene.

"Faramir?" She can no longer stand the uncertainty after Faramir dismisses the servant, wringing her hands slightly to keep from fidgeting in a worse manner. "Is something the matter?"

Faramir pauses before answering. "I am not certain," he says finally. "And I hesitate to speculate before I may hear him further."

He takes her arm again, guiding her towards the room's exit. There are too many people here, and while it is likely futile to prevent rumours--all sorts of rumours--from spreading, he would do what he can to limit them. The guards are entirely loyal, he is sure--but they are still human, and that was a scene that will not be soon forgotten, nor overlooked.

Once they have drawn a little apart, Faramir looks at Éowyn, apology written in his face. "My lady--Éowyn, forgive me. I had meant to wander with you a little more yet, before redeeming my promise to the Warden to return us both for the midday meal. But I think this is business that cannot wait. Would you be willing to return with our escort alone? You need not hurry, if you wish to tarry here with your kinsman a while longer. I will rejoin you as soon as I may, but I must attend to this first, and I think it may take some time."

It is not the most reassuring answer. Some impatience niggles in the back of her mind, mingling with consternation; mostly triggered by the look on Faramir's face. But she says nothing when he takes her arm once more, intuitively understanding he does not wish to speak more of the matter right there. How well her name sounds from his lips, softened by his Gondorian accent-- but this is no time for such girlish ruminations.

"There is nothing to forgive," she says with a slight shake of her head. "I can make it back by myself." But there's a frown on her face; not out of displeasure, though she is a little loathe to lose his company, but out of concern. She wants to bid him to be cautious, for some silly reason, though surely the matter is nothing so serious nor so ill. She hopes.

"I hope whatever the matter is, it shall be resolved swiftly. And... take care," she adds quietly despite her earlier rationalization, tamping down on a sudden urge to touch his hand, arm; something to offer further reassurance.

Faramir smiles at her suddenly, touched by her concern, and takes her hand and kisses it. It is more a courtly gesture than one of greater meaning, though his mouth lingers on her knuckles perhaps a hair longer than it should. "I shall, my lady, if you will do the same. If I am kept past luncheon, please give my apologies to Merry."

He walks with her back to their horses, and sees her off with their escort, watches her ride through the gate to the Citadel. Only then does he turn back, his expression extremely serious as he walks briskly towards his study, where he has already arranged to meet with the servant he spoke with briefly.

Their interview lasts for some time.

Faramir does not return to the Houses of Healing for the midday meal. Neither is he seen in the afternoon nor even at dinnertime, or later in the evening. The Warden of the Houses, not at all pleased at his patient's disappearance, sends for him, but to no avail. Merry, much concerned, keeps Eowyn company as much as she will permit. But eventually the hour is late enough that most of the residents of the House go to their beds, Merry included, and still Faramir has not returned.

That night is a dreadful nightfall, where the dark power from the East looms over all things and its brooding malice is almost tangible even in Minas Tirith. None go to their beds easy, and even those who are most hardy feel their hope falter. Even Merry looks in the direction of the Black Gate and wonders if he will see his friends and kinsman again.

At some late hour, midnight or after, Faramir returns and can be found sitting in the main dining area. The laces of his collar and sleeves are all undone, and his hair looks more unkempt, as though he has run his hands through it several times. His face is drawn, and for the first time in several days he looks like the invalid he still is, recovering from the after-effects of fell poison. There is a plate of bread and cheese and cold meat nearby, mostly eaten, and a bottle of wine, mostly empty.

But for now he ignores these, and sits still as stone, staring into a candleflame with an almost grim focus, as though he would like to question it. As though some mystery might be answered there. There is no telling how long he has sat there, or if he ever intends to move again.

Edited 2018-09-13 13:49 (UTC)

The skin over her knuckles still tingling at the gentle press of his lips, Èowyn can't help but glance behind her shoulder back at Faramir as she rides off, catching a brief glimpse of his figure before the line of sight is severed. In her heart creeps a sudden ill feeling; like she shouldn't have left him. But what other option does she have? It is clearly some matter that requires the attention of the Steward, and he is a grown man capable of looking after himself. He'd be back once he'd settled the issue. None of her reasonings make her feel any better, though.

Midday comes and goes, and herself and Merry dine by themselves. Though they chat and even laugh as they used to, they both feel the absence of Faramir keenly. How quickly the three of them have become nigh inseparable, their kinship forged by joint convalescence. Èowyn's concern grows greater with each hour, and she knows even Merry is uneasy. When dinnertime arrives with no Faramir, she goes so far as to ask leave to return to the Citadel to check in on him. The Warden declares quite adamantly he has no intention of losing two patients in the same afternoon. Though Faramir's tardiness pleases the Warden not, he is sure the Steward would return as soon as he could. Though Èowyn understands the man's reasoning, she resents it all the same.

Èowyn can find no rest that night, shaken by the stretching, grasping shadow of the East that appears so potent and malignant all of the sudden-- but moreover, she's troubled by some foreboding that has settled in her heart. She tosses and turns, and when she finally falls into fitful slumber, it is only to be jolted awake a while later, a hoarse cry dying upon her lips. Panting, she wipes cold sweat off her brow and tosses off her covers, pacing the room until she can stand it no longer; she cannot stay penned inside right now. Throwing the starry mantle over her nightrail and slipping her feet into a pair of slippers, Èowyn leaves her chambers and roams the silent, dark hallways of the Houses toward the gardens.

Just for a while, she justifies her breach of curfew, hoping the cool night air will soothe her anxieties.

She dodges an errant healer on night duty, continuing on her path that takes her through the common areas, mostly deserted now. She's about to pass the dining area by, when a faint glow of candlelight catches her eye, and by it a lone figure she recognizes a few beats later.

"Faramir!" It's merely a startled gasp, so surprised to spy him alone in the dark. Her feet move before she knows it, nigh running in her haste to reach him, the mantle billowing around her before settling again when she drops to the bench next to Faramir, scooting closer than is proper or entirely necessary. She doesn't notice, and wouldn't care if she did. "Faramir, what is wrong? Why do you sit here alone, in the dark?"

For a second, she's upset to the point of wanting to scold him; has he no idea how concerned she and Merry have been? Why did he not tell her he's returned? But then she catches a proper look at him in the feeble light of the candle, and is alarmed by his haggard appearance. What on earth has befallen him? What news did he hear? Her heart constricts in sympathy and dread both, and she thinks nothing of reaching out and grasping his closest hand in hers, startling at the coolness of his skin. Hissing in dismay, she sandwiches his palm in between both of hers, rubbing briskly to coax some warmth back into his flesh though the motion makes her broken arm twinge some.

"Your hands are cold... How long have you been out here like this?"

Edited (typos!) 2018-09-13 15:05 (UTC)

Faramir is so lost in his own thoughts that at first, when he hears his name called and looks up to see a shining silver and midnight blue figure in a beam of moonlight, face shadowed but hair shining, he thinks it is Elbereth herself. But then she calls him to him again and rushes to his side, taking his hand and rubbing it in her own. "Èowyn," he murmurs, almost as astonished as if she had been the Star-kindler in truth, for he has been so bound in other thoughts for most of the day that for the first time since they met, he has not thought of her.

But she is real, her hands are real and warm where they wrap around his. Faramir had not realized he was so cold. "Èowyn," he repeats, more strongly, bringing his other hand to cover hers. Belatedly, he realizes she has asked a question, and frowns as he tries to think of the answer. "An hour, perhaps? I am not certain, I--"

He flushes a little, shaking his head as though to banish some confusion. "Forgive me. You--do not find me at my best, just now."

And that is embarassing, for he wants few things more than for her to have a good impression of him, has taken pains to make it so. This was hardly in his plans. Though he has not planned much since the revelations of this morning. Much of it is something of a blur. Which may in part be the wine, though he has not, he judges, had enough to actually be drunk. Enticing as the thought was, in some ways, he now is glad he resisted the temptation, for this scene would be altogether worse if Èowyn had discovered him in a drunken stupor. "Forgive me," he says again. "For causing you any concern."

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feel free to invent portraits of your own btw =) including his family if you like

ooh i know just the thing, i'll spring it on you soon lol :3

oooh I am curious now! yay!

welp, here goes! :3

oooooh what a good idea!

glad you like it! C:

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if Eowyn speaks Gondorian Sindarin, she'd still only make out "Forgive me, my lord" or similar

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