faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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.

A suicide mission. Was Steward Denethor mad indeed? It is very much starting to appear so to Èowyn, impotent fury licking at the corners of her mind at his treatment of his second-born. She no longer cares so much that she ought to have respect for the dead. What father would ever bemoan aloud that one son lived when the other died, thus deeming the living less important than the dead-- less loved? She cannot fathom it.

For all that Faramir has every right to apply it, she loathes instantly that bitter smile that flickers across his expression, for it ill suits him-- more so when she has seen him smile in comparison. Èowyn betrays no sign of discomfort when his hand tightens around hers, a little too hard perhaps. She only draws in a slow, measured breath between parted lips that still resounds audibly in the quiet of the night, when Faramir speaks of the things he would himself tolerate and accept to spare his troops. She has never doubted the love his men bear for him, for to her it has long now seemed he is the sort that inspires loyalty and respect in the men he commands-- but here, it is painfully evident the feeling is mutual, and that it deeply pained Faramir to knowingly take those men out, knowing they were riding to their deaths.

And for what? To try to reclaim an outpost overrun, taking on the impossible? And all at the behest of a madman nobody could or would oppose.

It is a cold shiver that slithers down her spine when he accounts the dread of the Witch-king, echoing his shudder as her arm aches in remembrance. The unearthly screams of their fell beasts ring in her ears still, as well, pierce her dreams; just as the hiss of the Black Captain's menacing whispers do. Èowyn recovers from her own recollections just as Faramir continues the tale, taking a bit of grim satisfaction knowing that at least none would ever have to suffer the menace of the wraith again.

She sits, still and silent as a statue, as Faramir goes on, recounting this sad story of his. It visibly pains him; bearing down on him and wrapping about him like a tangible thing. Had Èowyn thought Denethor a madman, is pales in comparison to what Faramir is about to tell her next, so staggering a matter she could never had foreseen it. "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." At those words, that ill foreboding she had felt earlier in her chambers when she was jolted awake from a dream she can no longer remember returns, filling her heart with unease. She knows something is coming that she does not wish to hear, sending her pulse skittering.

He closes his eyes, and tells her; that dreadful, terrible truth of the matter, how his father had lost all reason and sought to burn both himself and Faramir alive.

It shocks her to her core, and pains her in equal measure at the same time. Her vision blurs with tears, witnessing Faramir's silent agony. "And they obeyed him." "No..." she whispers in anguish on the heels of the revelation, in a voice so thin it is barely audible. How could this be? How could those men have obeyed such orders so blindly? She feels like screaming, railing against the madness and injustice of it all. Pippin and Beregond-- she would forever remember those names, the only souls brave enough to understand such a thing was not to be suffered. She watches Faramir toy with the candle through blurry eyes, tears welling but not falling as he draws the story to its tragic close that robbed him of his remaining family-- and through Denethor's own hand, no less. How bitter, how horrific! To burn himself from his life... Èowyn would pity Denethor if his actions, caused by madness as they were, would not have endangered Faramir so recklessly.

Faramir's grief is almost tangible now, and he looks so broken. But how can anybody blame him? How could fate deal him with such a lot? It was not fair-- someone so kind and good did not deserve such. Èowyn shuts her eyes tightly; her tears finally slip free, one clear drop sliding down each cheek. Sucking in a sharp, short breath in what is almost a sob, Èowyn does not stop to think, but simply acts from her heart. The hand of her broken arm still held in Faramir's trembling grip, she lifts the other to throw gently but swiftly around his shoulders, mindful of his healing injury, her chin slotting over his opposite shoulder as she scoots closer still and draws him into an embrace. Decorum, propriety; all thoughts of those have gone out the window in favor of comfort and sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she whispers raggedly, sniffing. Those small, paltry words could never be enough, but they are all she had to offer. "I am so sorry, Faramir."

He starts a little when Èowyn wraps an arm around him, surprised by the sudden, swift gesture. But then the liquid timbre of her voice catches his attention, and he pulls away just enough to look at her face. The tears are there, unquestionable, wholly unexpected even after so dire a tale.

Faramir's expression is almost bewildered as he lifts his free hand and brushes a few of the drops from her cheek, less a comforting gesture and more as though he is ascertaining their reality.

Only after seeing that they are, that Èowyn, with all her pride and despair, with all her own horrors to carry, Èowyn is weeping for him...only then does he let out a low, shuddering gasp and pull her into an almost crushing embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. His eyes are clenched shut, and his shoulders shake, but he still has no tears. She will have to weep for them both, for he cannot, not for a pain so deep as this.

Some sense breaks through her distress and at first, Èowyn thinks she may have overstepped. Gondorians were more stringent about these things... but then, he looks so taken aback by her tears that it makes her want to weep more. Is it such a strange and foreign thing to him that she might grieve with him, and for the things he has had to endure that nobody should?

Faramir's embrace is a little too tight when he finally gives in, his despair overriding the consideration that normally tempers his strength, but Èowyn only holds onto him firmer in return. He is shaking like a leaf in the wind in her arms, and yet he has no tears to shed-- somehow, that is sadder to her still than anything that came before. That such basic device of grieving has been robbed of him, as well. If she must, then she will shed those tears for him; it is the least she can do, in this instant having no trouble setting aside her own pride and ails.

The darkness adds to her boldness, too, daring to do such things as she would not think of in broad daylight. Under its comforting shroud with only the moon as their witness, this meeting is something akin to their own secret. She lifts her hand from his shoulder where her fingers bunch into his tunic to slowly -- and a little gingerly at first -- stroke his hair as if he were a child, though nothing could be further from the truth. She realizes vaguely she's murmuring something soothing in a low, watery voice, most of it possibly nonsense, her Westron sprinkled with an errand Rohirric word or phrase throughout.

Faramir has no idea how long he sits thus, how long she holds him through what seems a storm of silent anguish. For the first while he is not aware of anything save grief: for the father whose love he never saw, for the loss of the lord he admired and revered, for the breaking of reason and the foul strategems of the enemy that set friend against friend, servant against servant, father against son. For all dark things.

But darkness does not last, as Faramir has pointed out to others before, and gradually he calms and thought returns, and with it awareness. Eowyn holds him without flinching, strokes his hair and murmurs quietly in her own language. Absently he takes note of the words, more gutteral than Sindarin and yet with a music in them, and wonders what she is saying, beyond something meant to soothe an unquiet mind. When was the last time any comforted him thus?

When was the last time he was free to seek comfort or show weakness? Not in front of those who call him Captain, who rely on his strength; not in front of his father. Not since Boromir left, perhaps. But while Boromir would have understood and shared the pain of this, his brother could not have eased his heart as Eowyn does.

She smells like lavender, clean and sweet.

Gradually his grip on her loosens; he is a little shamed to have clung to her thus when she is recovering from an injury, though she does not seem pained by so close a hold. He does not wish to let go of her at all, would as soon sit here and hold her and be held until the world's end, whether that is soon to come or Ages from now.

But he must and does, slowly and with reluctance. He looks more like himself when he pulls back to look at her face. Still sorrowful, for no grief can be dispersed immediately, but able to carry it. "Thank you." The words fall quietly in the candlelight, in this intimate, timeless bubble in which they sit. His eyes say more than that; hopefully she will be able to read them. Some gratitude cannot be fully expressed in words.

Èowyn does not think of herself as particularly skilled at offering comfort. My hand is ungentle, she had told Faramir on the early days of their acquaintance. And yet, she never once thinks this an awkward chore or somehow unnatural, to cling to one another like this. It is not one-sided, either, for while Faramir grieves, so does Èowyn-- not just for Faramir, but for all the foul, sorrowful things that have happened since Théoden fell under Saruman's thrall. She sheds quiet tears long pent up, and feels better for it; if this does not exactly heal her, then at least it releases some part of the nameless disquiet that has harried her for too long. Perhaps he was not the only one who needed to be held.

Her tears eventually run out and their tracks dry on her cheeks, but still she holds Faramir until he stops shaking, until he feels steadier. And when he begins to gradually pull back from their embrace, Èowyn feels similarly reluctant for it to end. Her own eyes are slightly red in the wake of her weeping, but there's a wordless understanding in them, a softness she does not display so readily anymore. She smiles a little sadly in return at his thanks, though she is heartened if she could aid him in his grief even by some measure.

"I wish you only good things and happiness," she whispers so softly it's barely audible, matching Faramir's tone, but she dearly means every word.

"And I wish the same for you, Èowyn of Rohan," he says softly, once again lifting a hand to her face, this time to cradle her cheek in his palm. His thumb strokes her skin with the lightest of touches. "I would I could bring you the same comfort you have brought me, and see you healed of all your hurts."

The last time she was touched like this, it had been most unwelcome; Wormtongue's hand was cool and clammy like the underbelly of a fish as he poured his fey, poisoned words in her ear, trying to appear as a friend to her. And in her utter loneliness and desperation, she had for a brief second believed him. A remembrance which still pours hot shame through her-- that she had nearly succumbed to his lies, his repulsive advances. But in that moment, she had felt so deeply abandoned and alone. Gríma had known it and pressed his advantage most cunningly. For that one brief moment, she had wanted to believe she had a friend, someone who cared.

She does not need to close her eyes here with Faramir to picture it, and to believe it. There is no selfish desire attached to his wishes-- she can trust him to mean every word without an agenda. Now, she closes her eyes to the touch because his hand is warm and gentle for all that it is a little rough and calloused; a warrior's hand. She closes her eyes because it feels good to be touched with such care, and because his soft words burrow deep under her skin and warm her to the core.

"I know." And she does. Her voice remains hushed, for it does not seem fitting to speak more loudly under this shroud of intimacy that has descended over their little corner of the dining hall. "You have been good to me, and a true friend. It has already eased my troubles more than you know."

I would be more than a friend to you. Almost he speaks the words; almost he leans forward the few inches that are all that would be needed to let him press his lips to hers, that he might show her instead of speaking it, a proof undeniable.

But much as he wishes he might, this is not the time for it. For all this moment's intimacy it is too fragile a point, too surrounded by pain. They both have healing left to do. It is too soon for declarations--and even if he is ready to make them, even if he is entirely certain of his heart, Èowyn is not yet ready to hear them. Still less is she ready to answer them, whether for good or ill, and he knows that however kindly she might think of him it could go either way. That is as well; he can wait, and will.

Even so can Faramir cannot quite bring himself to release her yet, so instead he lifts his other hand so he holds her face in both, leans forward and softly kisses her forehead, rests his head against hers for a minute. Hopefully that is an indulgence he may be permitted without cracking the growing trust between them. "Then I am glad," he says quietly. "And hope I may continue to do so in the coming days, whatever they may hold."

Closing her eyes as Faramir kisses her brow, Èowyn takes comfort in the tender gesture and the quiet moment between them before he pulls away, her hand brushing against his sleeve as if in silent farewell. Her gaze finds his in the dark, and she smiles a wan, small smile in return.

"Good." The whisper-soft, simple word holds within a deeper meaning; Do not give up on me just yet. There are no promises that she can make him now, her slowly changing and thawing heart still in throes of confusion and grief, but she does understand that seeds of something important have been sowed into fertile ground, after this night especially. She knows that Faramir understands it too, and far better than her besides.

But no, it is not yet the time. Hoping to distract them from this particular line of thought, Èowyn wipes at the corner of her eye to rid herself of some lingering moisture there and makes an effort to smile with a slightly more teasing mien-- tempered as it still is by the gravity of what just happened.

"Will you share some of that wine, Gondorian? 'Tis not mead, but it will do."

He smiles back, and if it takes some effort after all the momentous events of the past few minutes--of the past day--that is hardly surprising, and he knows she will not begrudge it.

"Gladly, and thank you for joining me in finishing the bottle. I have been watering it, but even so, I think my head will not thank me in the morning." He winces a little as he pours her a drink and passes it to her. "In truth, it does not thank me now. I will have to fall on the Warden's mercy and pray he is in a forgiving mood. How vexed was he?"

Èowyn's lips curve slightly in sympathy even as she takes the goblet from him, their fingers brushing lightly. With the other, she tugs the mantle a little closer about her; it is a little chilly in the night air, and she's only wearing her nightclothes underneath. The wine should help, she thinks.

"Quite vexed, but I imagine it was largely out of concern." She pauses, thinking for a beat before grimacing. "I was about to say he is not so unreasonable a man, but he denied my perfectly practical request to return to the Citadel earlier to look for you, so I shall not say any such thing."

That still rather rankled Èowyn, much as she understood the Warden's reasoning.

Faramir notices every accidental touch, cherishes each one, tiny moments of warmth. He is cold, and knows he should not sit here too much longer, the more so as he has no cloak of his own with him. But the wine is warming and the company more so, a balm after a long day of hurt, and he cannot deprive himself of it yet.

His smile turns a little more solid upon hearing that Éowyn wished to look for him, but..."You would not have found me there, I fear." He looks down into his wine briefly, the smile fading, then shrugs and takes a drink. "I went to see the remains of the tombs, such as they were, and then walked for a time." Much too long a time, likely. "I was...Not in a mood to be found, even if I had thought of it. But I confess I did not."

He sighs a little and drains the remnants of his cup, then pushed it away. "I will make apology to the Warden tomorrow. And point out that you, unlike me, were obedient to his will, and should not be made to suffer for my truancy. You suffered no ill effects from your sojourn to the Seventh Circle?"

Edited 2018-09-23 00:21 (UTC)

Would it be folly to admit she would have torn through the whole city if she'd had to, in order to find him? Perhaps. It certainly sounds like such even to Èowyn, herself. She takes a brief sip of wine and nods mutely in return, her small smile wan and sad. "I understand," she says quietly after a beat. And she does, for all that his preoccupation caused plenty of grief at the Houses-- but for that, he could not be blamed.

"Nay, no ill effects. If anything, I felt... well, it was good to be out and about for a while, and more so to ride again. And I am much relieved now to have seen my uncle. Merely there was concern for your absence, later. Merry was rather ill at ease as well, though he valiantly entertained me with stories to distract us both."

She bites her lip, belatedly realizing telling him that may only serve to make him feel more guilty. "But pray, do not worry yourself over that any longer. Merry will understand, too. As will the Warden."

His smile back at her is also a little sad, and he reaches over and takes her hand for a moment, squeezing her fingers, an attempt to comfort them both. Inwardly he marvels at how easy the gesture is now, how certain he is that she will not object to it.

His smile warms as she speaks of how she enjoyed her excursion otherwise, before its abrupt ending, and her relief at seeing her uncle. "I am glad," he says quietly. "And most sorry that our outing was cut short. When we are more recovered--and the Warden has forgiven me this transgression--" A quick, rueful grin flashes across his face. "--perhaps we may venture forth again. There is much more of the city I think you would enjoy seeing, if you would be willing. Or if I am to be kept a little longer, perhaps you might be able to go forth with Merry. Surely he is feeling confined as well, and I owe him some apology also."

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