faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

"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."

It is like something akin waking from some stupor, the way Faramir seems to pull himself away from his thoughts at her presence. He seems lost, almost, and Èowyn's concern takes flight once more.

"Please, stop apologizing. There is no need," she says, softly but firmly, her hands stilling as Faramir covers them with his free one. "Though we were concerned, Merry and I. You were gone for so long."

She bites her lip, silent for a moment as she studies him in the dim light of the moon and the candle. Some ill knowledge has made his face gaunt, deepened the lines there. Her need to know what has happened will not be stayed or denied for longer, and with some weight behind her words, she squeezes his hands and urges, "Pray, Faramir, what has you so distraught? Will you not speak of it to me, your friend? Shared trouble is trouble halved, as we say in Rohan."

A part of her feels a little disingenuous to title herself his friend only, when some tendrils of understanding have, of late, begun to slowly wind around her heart. But this is not the time for such thoughts. Besides, they are friends, too.

A shadow crosses his face, and he looks down at their joined hands. There is a very long pause.

"I have discovered how my father died," he says finally, releasing her hands in order to rub his forehead. He looks briefly back at the candle flame and grimaces. "It is a dreadful tale. Enough that I hesitate to tell you of it, for fear of giving you more nightmares than you must already have." Sparse words, to explain how haunted his eyes look.

Edited 2018-09-13 17:57 (UTC)

She closes her eyes for a moment, and drops her chin. A staid topic indeed, and one that would put such a haunted look upon his face. A chill passes over her, fearing already this tale, but she does not quail.

"Allow me to worry about my nightmares. I would rather ease your burden, if I may." Surely that is the least she can do after every kindness that he's paid her, during these past days. They have not even known each other quite full week yet, but that does not seem to matter; she likes him better already than some folk she has known most of her life.

Quietly, she affirms, "I will listen, if you have a mind to tell me."

"Even so, I hardly know how to begin," he admits, his shoulders sagging a little. He is half-turned where he sits beside her on the bench, facing a point between her and the candle, one hand resting on the table and the other still in her hands. The flickering candlelight throws warmth onto her face, clearly showing the concern and willingness there.

It is not that he doubts her ability to carry such a burden, merely that he does not know how to speak of any of it. If it were daylight, or some less silent hour, perhaps he would not be able to at all. But this quiet time of night is the sort where secrets may be spoken, even the hardest ones that should not see the light of day, nor be generally known. And Èowyn, of all people, is familiar with shadows and dark tales.

"I have told you...somewhat, of how things stood between my father and I," he says finally. "I have not told you the full extent of it, particularly not at the last." He is silent for another moment, then sighs, reaching for his goblet of wine and drinking from it. There is another empty goblet handy, and he places it in front of her, in case she wishes to share what remains of the bottle. "Have you heard how I came to be injured?"

Edited 2018-09-13 20:11 (UTC)

Èowyn rolls her lips into her mouth for a moment, a little pained to see Faramir so visibly distraught and despairing. Wordlessly, she squeezes his hand again in effort to support, waiting for once with uncharacteristic patience for him to corral his thoughts. The thumb of her good hand begins to rub tiny back-and-forth motion against the back of his, without her conscious notice.

She nods her head in agreement when he finally speaks, swallowing at the addition. The fact something was left unsaid of that sorry matter does not bode well, she thinks, recalling too keenly Faramir's sorrow and despair when he'd told her of his father and how things stood between them. Though she glances at the goblet he places before her and is tempted to join him for a drink, she holds still for now. "Yes-- in battle, defending Osgiliath, I believe."

"Osgliath was overrun," Faramir says, looking down into his wineglass. "A year ago we held it, and under my brother's leadership we kept it from being reclaimed. But that was merely a trial to test our numbers, and the Enemy retook it not long since, filling it with his forces to send on to the Pelennor. To attempt to retake it now was to walk into the heart of his army, poorly positioned, outnumbered by at least ten times what we could bring to bear, and likely more."

He lets out a long breath. "It was little more than a suicide mission, and all knew it--yet the Lord of the City ordered that it be done, despite all counsel. Only the day before he had bemoaned the fact that it was Boromir who died while I lived, and now he sent me to do what he believed Boromir could have done, though I would swear even my brother could not have retaken Osgiliath in such circumstances. And such was my love and loyalty that I would let him spend me thus, whatever the cost to myself. Despite knowing that even if I succeeded I had no guarantee of...anything, if I returned."

A brief, bitter smile crosses his mouth. If. He had managed to keep faith that the war might yet be won, but lost all hope he would live to see it, and most of his desire for it. His hand clenches harder around hers, though he does not realize it. To accept your own death is not the same as to long for it, but still it was a dark thing. "Being ordered needlessly to my death I might have forgiven, perhaps. But to take my men, to fling them like grains of sand at an ocean of horror...to see them look to me still with hope, with faith that I might yet claim some measure of victory from such impossible odds..."

Faramir closes his eyes, rubs them and his forehead. "If he had asked me to ride out alone, to face all the hordes of Mordor unclothed and with only a stick to defend myself with, I would have done it more willingly. As it was, Mithrandir counselled me not to throw my life away rashly or with bitterness, and to that I held. Osgiliath could not be taken, but yet I might hold the fords and the Anduin, and prevent the Enemy's movement that way. I did my best, and we made the Enemy pay, if not as dearly as I had hoped or my father expected. But there was no victory against such numbers, especially not when led by the Black Captain, who brought unfathomable fear with him. He it was who was our chief difficulty, for the despair he wielded was so great men would fall to their knees, or flee screaming, and so be lost. To keep them in some semblance of order that they might retreat became my task, and I remained behind until the last to do it."

Faramir shudders at that, for he remembers too well the Shadow swooping overhead, the screams of malice echoing in the night...Èowyn is not the only one who dreams dark dreams of the Witch-king of Angmar. He wonders sometimes if she truly realizes just how dread a creature she defeated, or how grievous was the damage he dealt before he was felled by her hand. Armies fled before the Black Captain, but not Èowyn of Rohan. He does not wonder that it cost her dear.

But that is a subject for another time, and Faramir is taking too long at this, delaying the main. He shrugs a little and reaches for his goblet again, taking a sip. "At some point I was hit by a dart, one marked with poison, though Lord Aragorn told me later it was days of fighting the Black Breath that did the greatest damage. At any rate I was brought back into the city unconscious and fevered, and then--" He breaks off abruptly, takes a breath. "I told you of it, I think. For near on a day my father sat by my side, saying nothing, giving no orders, waiting only to see if I lived or died. Then he regretted his actions, regretted the things he had and had not done. Only then, when I could not see or hear him, or know of it. The defense of the city he neglected, giving himself entirely over to despair. And despair took him indeed, despite all his iron will and sternness and strength."

Edited (there's always another typo) 2018-09-15 23:40 (UTC)

Faramir lifts the goblet again, then sets it aside, pushing it away and looking at nothing in particular in the room. "All that I knew, or most of it. That and nothing more, until I woke here and learned that my father was dead and I was now Steward, against all expectation. Any questions I have asked have gone unanswered, either because those I asked did not know the answers, or because they feared to tell me until I was more recovered."

His eyes close, as though the weight of knowledge is too much for them to bear. "Whatever the reason, whether belief in my doom or despair over the course of the battle--or some other fell reason, and I have my suspicions--my father's reason broke. He called for men of the household and bid them carry me to the Silent Street, to the House of the Stewards, where all our line have been buried for as long as we have served the Empty Throne. There he called for wood and oil to be brought, that he might build a pyre and burn us both on it, that father and son might leave the world together. And they obeyed him."

He opens his eyes but does not look for her reaction. He cannot. The words spill out with terrible slowness but also terrible force, unstoppable, blood seeping from a wound. "Had it not been for Mithrandir, and for a guard of the citadel named Beregond, and above all for Pippin, he would have succeeded in his aim. But Pippin ran for aid, convinced Beregond to abandon his post--a deed which will mean his death if he does not return from the battle, or if the king is not merciful. Beregond fought my father's men long enough for Mithrandir to arrive, but--"

His voice breaks. He lifts his free hand and runs it briefly through the candleflame, which flickers between his fingers, kissing them with warmth. The heat is greater above the fire rather than inside it, but on an oiled pyre the flame would have been enough. More than enough. As it was. "Mithrandir pulled me from there. My father...could not be swayed. He laid himself down and lit the flame, ruling his own end when he could rule nothing else. All the building is gone now, nothing but ashes and ruined stone. As is he."

The last words are spoken so low as to almost be unheard. He went to see the remnants himself, to see the corpse of the House of the Stewards since there is nothing left of his father's body to make farewell to; but no farewell could be made, and no peace could he find in his wanderings this evening, not with this new knowledge dogging his footsteps. Faramir's hand trembles where it holds hers, not from cold but from terrible grief.

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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