faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

Èowyn stifles a laugh at his wryness and wit-- fishpond, indeed! Determinedly, she does not imagine such a scene for fear of bursting into helpless peals of laughter. But her amusement flees swiftly when he captures her hand in his, his own expression now solemn. She's distantly aware that her lips have parted to draw in a deep, silent breath as he lifts her hand to his lips; same gesture as this morning, and yet so vastly different. Her skin seems to tingle under the warm press of his mouth that lingers reverently-- dare she say, longingly?

Then he steps back, and she feels momentarily adrift. Nodding her agreement belatedly, distracted and abashed both by the touch, Èowyn clears her throat slightly before smiling gamely. "I shall look forward to it, then," she says mercifully, instead of a teasing quip. Her smile softening, she bids, "Good night, Faramir."

Gathering the mantle closely about herself, she gives him one last look and a small smile before turning, resisting the urge to glance back as she makes her way to her own room. Once there, it takes her a long while to fall asleep again, but she slumbers until morning without disturbance; though her thoughts turn almost immediately to Faramir when she awakens a few hours after dawn. She breaks fast in her room and preoccupies herself with various tasks until afternoon tea-- consciously or no, knowing Faramir is unlikely to be up and about earlier.

She takes her tea in the garden atrium, the blue mantle drawn about her shoulders and a closed book lying on her lap, going ignored in favor of a cup of steaming tea; for once, her hair is not unbound but done up in neat coils at the back of her head. Her maid had been reluctant to put it up, but Èowyn had insisted. If anyone asked, she'd vehemently deny waiting for anyone, but she is most definitely doing just that.

He watches her walk away, the way moonlight from hallway windows catches on the blue mantle, tangles in her hair, until she turns a corner and is gone. Only then does he seek out his room.

Try as he might, the weight of the day hits him again at once, for all that he resolutely thinks of other things. Faramir is an old hand at making himself sleep even when his mind would have it otherwise; it is a trick most soldiers learn. And he does sleep before very long, exhaustion and wine make that certain.

But he does not sleep well, and his dreams are dark. As a result he wakes earlier than he should, with a raging headache and an all-over ache that reminds him too pointedly he is recovering from poison and a weakening fever. He calls for water, food, and for the Warden of the House. All three arrive in haste, and the Warden makes his displeasure most clear. Faramir answers with mroe authority than good grace, though he explains the outline of the situation to the Warden, who is not unfamiliar with grief. But the Warden wins the argument by reminding Faramir that his actions affect others, and that Èowyn and Merry, themselves still healing, were much troubled by his absence; surely the Steward, however careless he might be with his own health, would not wish them to damage themselves with concern for him?

An unexpected shot, but one that hits dead in the back, Faramir thinks ruefully. Èowyn herself may or may not realize where his interest lies, but clearly it is obvious to others. He is too honest a man for subterfuge. After that he accepts his chiding more meekly, and agrees to return to bed after his meal and not rise again until the afternoon.

He sleeps better with the sun on his face, and remembers no dreams, but wakes disheartened all the same. It is mostly the thought of seeing Èowyn that causes him to leave his bed and dress, formally but with more care for warmth, and he walks more slowly than he has for the past several days, looks more pale.

But it is not hard to find someone to inform him where the Lady of Rohan is, and the smiling apprentice offers to bring the two of them hot tea and sustenance in some little time, and if there is a slight knowing edge to her smile, Faramir chooses to ignore it. Not good at subterfuge, indeed. Small wonder his father, whose subtlety of thought was deep and legendary, could not approve of him.

A passing thought that makes him wince, and Faramir forces it aside as he takes the last steps into the atrium. The crown of golden coils is easily spotted, and raises his eyebrows, for it is the first time she has done such during her time here. Formality, armor, or something else? "Good afternoon, my lady," he says quietly, approaching from behind and taking a seat near her, sinking into it with obvious relief. "You see that I still have not fallen into a fishpond. Though I make no promises for the rest of the afternoon."

Light words, lighter than he feels, but that is all the more reason to utter them.

So lost in thought Èowyn is, staring out without seeing anything, that she startles the slightest bit at Faramir's greeting, quiet as it is. Internally scolding herself for her inattentiveness, she sets aside her half-empty cup on the small tray set up next to the bench and looks up just in time to see the strain on his face, clearly relieved to be off his feet. She's seen a similar look many a time before in riders coming out of a long campaign, consumed by soreness and an ache of the whole body. Concern pierces at her heart, even as his gently jesting words draw a small smile from her, following his lead for a moment and choosing a lighter response.

"Is there a fishpond to be found in these gardens? Perhaps it needs guards about it, not unlike the White Tree itself, to stave off such incident."

She is glad to see him dressed more warmly today, but at the same time worries about the need of it; he looks pale and worn down, yesterday's news no doubt weighing him down, setting back his recovery. But Èowyn expected no less, for all that seeing it with her own eyes now leaves her ill at ease. The urge to put forth some tangible form of sympathy is strong, and she does not stop herself from reaching out a hand to touch gently at his sleeve in wordless offering; there for him to take, if he wishes.

"How fare you?" she asks with quiet sincerity, though she already guesses at the answer.

He smiles a little at her for the question, his eyes resting on her face with pleasure. "Not in these. As you must have guessed, or else we would have found it by now." They have surely wandered every inch of the gardens these past days, two or three times over. "There are in other areas of the city, however, and a large fountain on the seventh circle. Though I am not sure any still contain any fish."

Food supplies are not low, precisely, but all the city has been on siege rations for some time, and if none are hungry neither is anyone sated. Faramir suspects any ornamental fish will have been turned into dinner, if only by feral cats. Truthfully, he does not begrudge the loss.

"But there are no guards to be spared for water fishponds, so I will live yet in risk." Unless you should guard my steps again, he wants to say, but it crosses the line from jest into truth a little too far for this morning. Perhaps it is merely the strangeness of regrouping after such a painfully intimate interlude last night; perhaps it is how different she looks with her hair bound up. More regal, certainly, and elegant. But Faramir thinks wistfully that he rather prefers it down.

Then Èowyn leans over and touches his sleeve in obvious concern, and some of that awkward feeling of distance dissipates. He reaches over to grasp her hand, smiling at her again, and if it is a little pained...well.

He must consider for a moment before answering, and finally shrugs. "In truth, I hardly know," he admits, his voice low. "Better in some ways, worse in others..."

Faramir hesitates, then rubs his forehead with his free hand and even more quietly says, "My father's authority weighs more heavily now that I know how it came to me."

Èowyn chuckles softly at his initial determination. "If anything is true, it is that." She thinks they might be able to name the placement of each stone, plant and a blade of grass to be found in these gardens. And truthfully, she has never really understood the point of fishponds to begin with, for they seem, well... wasteful? So really, it is no significant loss. "Then, perhaps our incarceration here is a blessing in disguise-- if only to keep you from straying into any ponds, fish or no fish."

It is a wan jest, though, soon giving way to a sigh as she gently squeezes his hand in hers.

"Oh, Faramir. I am truly sorry." There is such empathy in her voice, wishing she could do something more tangible to ease his torment and consternation, hating that pain that laces his smile and glints in his gaze. But she knows there is no such magic that she can wield to make the things that haunt Faramir go away. Perhaps nothing but time could. She's quiet for a beat. "I hope the Warden was not too wroth with you."

It would be easier in some ways to sit and talk merely of fishponds and other nonsense, swapping pleasantries, but they are neither of them good at dissembling. The concern in her voice is so poignant that he wishes he had a better answer to make, for her sake as much as his own.

Still, Faramir manages a smile, for at least there is comfort in her company, and in knowing that she cares about his wellbeing. "No more than I deserved, for it is true I behaved foolishly yesterday, however understandable my reasoning." He shrugs again, this time accepting. "I have given him my promise of obedience, at least until the progress I have lost is regained. Though I fear I will not be able to hide in the Houses much longer. There is too much that needs doing in the city, and there is too little I can accomplish from here."

It is expected news all around, but that hardly means Èowyn particularly approves of it, as evidenced by the frown of consternation that furrows her brows. She realizes he has a great responsibility to bear as the Steward, and the needs of the city cannot be postponed for much longer. She is concerned, however, that he will not have enough time to recover until such time comes knocking-- that Faramir will, in his diligence and dedication, work himself to the bone. As much as she understands the realities waiting for him, she still cannot help the sense of near indignation that bubbles up on his behalf. He's been through enough already, and now this?

She's been quiet for a moment too long, she realizes, lost in thought. Shaking off her preoccupation, Èowyn nods her head, albeit with a small sigh. Idly, she moves aside the long-since forgotten book from her lap that she hasn't, truly, even cracked open. "I understand that there are demands being made of your time and attention. I only hope they will not be at the expense of your health and well-being."

He sighs and leans back in his chair, which forces him to release her hand. "There are a few days left." Before the Captains of the West reach the Black Gate, and the last battle. Before their fates are decided, for good or ill. "I have delegated all I may, and the city holds its breath, and comes to no harm for my absence. For the moment, we all wait. But after..."

Faramir does not grimace or look grim, only quietly accepting. After, when Frodo succeeds or fails, when it is known whether the king lives to reclaim his throne or not. Whatever combination of fates comes is out of his hands to affect. "After, whatever the outcome, I must see to all that needs doing, whether from the Citadel or a sickbed." He looks up at her, and smiles just a little. "But I promise you I will do my best not to neglect myself in the meanwhile. And--I hope you will continue to keep me company, and remind me if I am failing to keep my word."

Èowyn returns her hand to her lap to join its twin when Faramir lets go of it, albeit a little reluctantly-- when did the gesture start feeling so natural, to hold his hand? Lips tightening for a moment at the thought of the wait they still have before them, she only nods minutely. His smile, even if small, draws out a tiny smile of her own-- but perhaps it's also his promise that pleases her. "I believe I can agree to that. If in return you will remember that I am here, should you want for assistance. Minas Tirith is not Meduseld, but surely there will be something I could do. And if the worst should come to pass..."

She falls silent, sighing a little through her nose as she looks out across the atrium, sparing a quick thought for Èomer. If the worst comes to pass; if the Company fails, Frodo is lost, and Mordor prevails, they will not have the numbers here for victory through arms. Even if the circles of the White City could hold back another siege, they would run out of supplies and provisions soon enough. "Well, I still have a hale sword-arm."

Strange how the thought that so beguiled her only a handful of days ago -- death in battle -- now tastes like ash in her mouth.

Faramir's heart constricts a little, twisted by hope and compassion at the look on her face, the words she says. She does not speak as though she still longs for death on a battlefield, and if she has healed even that much, it is a joy and a relief to him. "I will remember. And whether worst or best should befall us, I will not fail to ask your assistance, whether for Gondor's need or my own, for I know you are both capable and trustworthy, whatever the need."

"You are too kind," she murmurs with a tiniest of smiles, a little abashed by the praise even as it pleases her to hear it said-- they are not words she has been gifted with overly much in recent years. Yet there is a slight air of preoccupation about her today, her thoughts returning to the previous night again. Faramir was so earnest and open with her, trusting her completely; she knows she has not been as forthcoming about her own ails. Subtle indecision gnaws at her. Were she inclined to be truthful about the ugliness of her own tale before her desperation brought her to Gondor -- and it surprises her that she even considers such -- would that not be selfish, to burden someone who has already suffered so much with more ill stories?

Èowyn's preoccupation does not escape him. Faramir considers her for a few moments, hten moves closer to sit next to her--but before he can speak there is the sound of footsteps approaching. Upon turning his head, he sees the apprentice he spoke with earlier approaching, carrying a laden tray.

She places the tray on the table in front of them. There are two small, steaming teapots and cups, and a plate of small buttered rolls. The apprentice bobs a small curtesy. "From the Warden, my lord, my lady. And you are to drink all of this tea, my lord, or else the Warden will know the reason why."

She looks at Faramir, attempting to be stern and not quite managing it; she cannot be more than ten, but is clearly taking her duty most seriously. Faramir holds back his smile and thanks her most courteously, assuring her of his compliance, and she gives him a bobs another courtesy and dashes off wearing a deeply satisfied expression.

He chuckles once she is gone, but obediently pours himself a cup and drinks, though his nose wrinkles a little with dislike. He has downed enough willowbark tea this past week to fill one of the fishponds he keeps jesting of. He sighs, grimacing a little at Èowyn. "I hope whatever he has given you holds more appeal." Another sip. "There is something on your mind, I think. Would it help you to share it?"

Èowyn stifles a smile of her own at the girl's no-nonsense decree to Faramir from the Warden, bowing her head to hide her amusement. "I like her spirit," she puts in with a smirk once the apprentice has set down the tray and left them to their own devices once more, chuckling slightly at Faramir's distaste for his tea as she tends to her own teapot-- picking up a hint of chamomile in the scent of the brew. Hardly subtle, Èowyn thinks, a little discomfited the Warden seems to have such insights into her state of mind. But then, she has never been the most subtle creature herself.

She is quiet for a long moment at Faramir's question, pouring herself a fresh cup to replace the one she'd been nursing, long since gone cool.

"It might, as you have already proven to me that sharing can lighten one's load. I have not been so forthcoming with my own ills, for more went on in Edoras than Merry has, no doubt, already spoken to you of. He knows not the extent of it all, of the time before Gandalf and Lord Aragorn made it to the Golden Hall and saw the bewitchment of Théoden with their own eyes." She pauses with a tiniest sigh, her expression grim. "Only, it is an ugly sort of tale, and I am loathe to burden you with more of such things."

Faramir nods his agreement, inwardly making a note to keep an eye on the girl. But that thought will keep. "Your confidence is no burden to me," he says simply. Now that he is sitting near her, he makes bold to take her hand in his again, stroking his thumb against the back of her hand. "On the contrary, I would be honored to know whatever you may tell me, however ugly the tale. The more so if it aids you in any way."

"I cannot say if it will. But you have been honest with me, and I can do no less." It does not really make much sense to her, but Èowyn feels a deep conviction he should know it all-- especially in light of their deepening friendship. His touch is welcomed, and she curls her fingers around his instantly when he reaches for her hand. With her other, she brings her cup to her lips and takes a sip of tea before setting it back down on the tray, beginning her tale.

"I have told you already of the dark times that faced Rohan, of the king's enthrallment. Though its chief architect was the wizard Saruman, his will was done unto Théoden by someone closer to home-- the man who was supposed to be my uncle's adviser. Gríma Wormtongue, he was named. Aptly so." Her expression darkens for a moment, distaste crossing her face at the mere mention of the name. "Perhaps once he was a more decent man, or least benign. But for years now, he was the greatest threat in Rohan and to Rohan, though few could see it and even fewer could resist him. He had the King's ear and trust, and he abused it in Saruman's name. Working his foul influence together with Saruman's magic, they enthralled my uncle's mind. For Wormtongue, as pitiful a creature as he was, had the ability to ensnare with words."

She pauses, drawing in a deep, slow breath. "We did what we could to counter it; myself, Èomer and our cousin, Théodred. But Théoden sunk deeper into dotage, and we could not oust Wormtongue. For he had uncle's addled protection, and he claimed Saruman would shatter Théoden's mind and by doing so kill him if we intervened. Understanding of such magical matters is beyond me, and I know not if that was the truth. But we dared not test it. Then Théodred was wounded by Orcs of Isengard, rampaging unchecked across our land. My brother attempted to reason with uncle, to break through his thrall, but he was near insensate by the time. And when Èomer finally confronted Wormtongue in a fit of temper... he had my brother banished under pain of death."

She closes her eyes, remembering the pain of that day, her desperation of being left alone. "I told you on that day up on the wall that poison ran in me long ere running afoul with the Witch-king. I spoke the truth, for Wormtongue did not spare his fey whispers for my uncle alone. He poured his poison also in my ear for years. He made me doubt all things; myself and my own worth, the worth of my house and of our people. It shames me now to think of it, how I came to believe his lies. I think... he wished me brought down, my pride weakened, so he could press his advantage-- for his interest was ever personal. I know not what Saruman promised Wormtongue in return for betraying Théoden and Rohan, but I have my suspicion. For years, he haunted my steps, his leering eyes following me where I went. My skin crawled each time. He had the good sense at least to be cautious of my cousin and brother, but the day Théodred succumbed to his injury and my brother was banished... it was just me left, fighting two battles; to keep uncle clinging onto some sense of reality, and to rebuff Wormtongue's advances.

Do you know how unspeakable a thing it is, when the halls of your own home turn dark and hostile? I barred my door and slept with a knife under my pillow, yet I never felt at ease or safe. I could hear his footsteps, pausing behind my door at night. I was at the end of my rope that day, when Gandalf miraculously arrived and broke the spell enslaving uncle. I would have driven my knife into Wormtongue's gut, and damned the consequences."

She lets out a shuddering breath, shoulders slumping a little as if some invisible weight was pushed off them, her fingers tightening slightly around Faramir's.

"Lord Aragorn stayed uncle's hand, when he would have hewn off Wormtongue's head for his treachery when he awoke from his long thrall. I understand the reasoning, and yet I regret that he was stopped-- for I would have given anything to see Wormtongue pay for everything in blood. I still do."

A wan, sad excuse of a smile trembles across her lips for a brief moment. "Is that very evil of me to think so, do you think?"

Some of this story Faramir had gathered or suspected, and he had known there must be more. A spirit as fierce and determined as Èowyn's could not have been sunken so low without great pressure being brought to bear. He listens in silence, holding her hand gently and watching her face.

When she tells of how Gríma spoke poison to her, tainting all she saw including her own self, he frowns. When he hears why, his hand tightens on hers, harder than he intends, and draws in a breath in a quick, angry hiss. Despicable, and worse than despicable--bad enough to give poor counsel to a king, but to prey on a person, to grind them down in order to force them to submit to your will, and to do it for such base purpose...

Faramir is almost as shocked by the rage that flares through him. He has a gentle heart, and for all his soldier's life he does not kill willingly. One reason he is an excellent archer is that if he must deal in death, he would do it as quickly and cleanly as possible, and not prolong the suffering of any creature. But if Gríma were before him, he would throttle him with his bare hands. This other human being he would slay without pity or mercy.

So when Èowyn smiles sadly and asks her question, it takes him a moment to answer, for words to push their way past the fury burning in his veins. For the first time in their acquaintance he looks dangerous, every inch the warrior he is.

Faramir closes his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to calm. "No." He swallows, opening his eyes and looking down at their joined hands, thinking past his anger. "Not evil to think. His crimes were many, and cruelly dealt, and while showing mercy is admirable you were left with no justice. It is small wonder you remain unsatisfied with the outcome." Or wounded by it. In truth he aches for her, and his anger cannot stand in the face of that.

It takes her aback, the steely, hard expression on Faramir's face-- Èowyn has never seen him display anger or even annoyance. He is so kind and gentle that to see him like this... it makes her feel a little conflicted. And yet, some primal part of her thrills at glimpsing this side of him, the warrior that hides within.

"I am. Unsatisfied by it," she says quietly after a long moment, slowly, an edge to her tone that speaks of dawning realization. "I had not understood how much until now, for there were more pressing concerns at the time. So much happened all at once..." She sighs. "Being merciful is noble and what we should strive for, and yet it feels like another instance where my wishes did not matter. Not that Lord Aragorn could have known them, or what I had endured when he interfered."

But still. Thinking of Aragorn now drives a keen flare of embarrassment and discomfort through her, recalling what happened next; awkward it feels too, the thought of telling about it to Faramir.

"Gríma slunked back to hide behind his wizard's skirts the moment he could. I was told that after the sack of Isengard, uncle tried to appeal to him one last time, to abandon Saruman. I confess the thought stings, that he would still attempt to reason with the Worm instead of writing him off like the wretch he was, after all he had done so willfully. Asylum? To him? Not ever!" Anger now flickers across her own expression, her temper hissing at her at the mere thought. No asylum and no mercy would Wormtongue ever receive from Èowyn of Rohan!

He cannot sustain anger for long. Already it had begun to be outmatched by empathy on her behalf, but it tamps further at the mention of Aragorn: the slight hesitation before she says his name, the shadow of awkwardness in her eyes. A different uncertainty pierces him at that sight, though this one he hides. It is something he suspected already, and despite it he has reason to hope.

And this is not the time for such wonderings. Instead he listens, holding her hand quietly in his. He wonders if her uncle realized--if any realized--the extent to which she lived under siege in Gríma's court. Her brother perhaps, if he was banished on pain of death. "With what result?" he asks. "From your wording I take it your uncle failed, but I had not heard what became of Saruman after Isengard's fall, much less of his servant and spy."

"I only know what Èomer told me briefly of the meeting after; that Saruman, hiding up in his tower together with Wormtongue, attempted to weasel his way into uncle's good graces once more, to parlay with him even as his foul plans to raze Rohan to the ground lay bare before all. Théoden was persuaded by honeyed lies no more, and cast aside Saruman's false offers of peace, much to his great wrath. Then Gandalf broke the other wizard's staff and cast him out of their order, and Saruman slunk back inside his tower, defeated-- or so it seemed. That was the long and short of it, as they left the two rogues to hide in Orthanc under the watching eyes of the Ents, whom had cleansed Isengard and taken over its guardianship."

Èowyn cannot speak of the wisdom of such a decision. Time would tell what became of it, and whether the choice proved wise or ill. She shakes her head, gazing down at their joined hands and saying with a mild edge of wistfulness in her voice for a moment, "Strange and dire days, that such creatures should come forth from old legends... At any rate. Perhaps the wizard shall take his ire upon the Worm, perhaps not. But should the wretch ever cross my path again, I know not if I would be so merciful as Lord Aragorn was. I cannot feel shame for such thought, either."

"I have heard of the tree-herders, from Merry, and would give much to meet one. And yet...I wonder if that course was wise." He frowns, considering all this.

"You have great reason for your anger, and I know you are a person who hungers for justice. The line between justice and vengeance is dangerously easy to cross, so for that reason I am glad the decision did not lay on your shoulders, which had already borne so much. Vengeance is a poison more dangerous than the one that brought me low."

He strokes the side of her hand with his thumb, realized he's doing it, and stops. "But I wish you had been granted more closure than this. I am not sure I could be merciful in such circumstances either. Or even if I but knew of them."

"I admit, I have questioned it as well," Èowyn confesses softly. "And not merely because of my own bias, but also I wonder if leaving Saruman at large, under guard as though he may be now, was sound. But what is done, is done. Time will tell if that decision was wise or ill, I imagine."

There is much wisdom in Faramir's words, and his empathy and understanding goes a long way to soothe the impotent sense of injustice she feels done unto her. There are few to whom she could speak of such things in the first place, she realizes. His words are almost akin to an absolution of some sort.

"Thank you," she whispers, for he has helped more than may be obvious with his response alone. Has she been so neglected and rejected that any form of validation feels good now? She does not wish to think so, but cannot help but wonder. Indeed, she has of late looked back upon her own behavior and thought of it more critically, gone over every act and word said-- the true level of her own despair has never been more clear to her, after these days spent in the Houses. It has not been a particularly pleasant realization, but a necessary one, yes.

"There is some more to the tale of the time between that and my ride to war, though less foul than it is simply... foolish, it seems to me, and embarrassing as well-- now that I view it all with clearer eyes."

He nods in silence. For good or ill, the fate of Saruman and Wormtongue is out of their hands. When she thanks him Faramir looks down at their joined hands, then turns his in hers, entwining their fingers. His expression is troubled. "You are welcome. As I said, I am willing to hear whatever you choose to tell me, and am honored by your confidence. But, Èowyn..."

He hesitates, but the question must be asked, if only for his own peace of mind in light of all she has said. "I hope--" He starts, then stops, thinking of last night's kiss on the forehead, and other kisses on her hand, and words both said and unsaid. He takes a deep breath. "Lady, if I have ever in any way encroached upon you, to any extent, I beg you would tell me so. Now or in the future."

Edited 2018-10-08 16:00 (UTC)

"What?" Èowyn asks with a moment's delay, bewildered. Not by the question, but the thought that any of Faramir's actions could be seen as encroaching in any way. Certainly not in a way comparable to Wormtongue's vileness. The mere idea is preposterous, and she draws in a quiet but sharp breath, squeezing his hand with hers as tight as she dares. "No. Béma, no. Faramir, I would never think that. You couldn't."

But soon, she thinks she must speak with complete honesty. Even so, she never once thinks of the kiss to her brow last night, nor any of the ones to her hand-- she can only think of one thing from the early days, and even that is negligible. "When we met, I was short with you. My discontentment was not of your making, but you spoke to me of my beauty that day the Warden brought me to see you, and I... grew wary that maybe that was all you saw. It was unjust of me to think so even for a moment, and you disabused me of such fool notion swiftly. You have never disrespected me in such manner, and I know you will not. Pray, be at peace."

The confused, astonished look on her face is answer enough, even before she speaks. To Faramir's surprise, he finds himself blushing at her words. Many times now he has thought over those hasty, fumbling sentences he spoke that first day in his first astonished moments of discovery, and wondered if they were ill-done.

He laughs a little, partly from relief. "I had known you but a few minutes! There was little else I could speak on, that I knew of for certain about you." He squeezes her hand in return. almost as hard as she does his. "But thank you for saying so; you relieve my mind. I had hoped not, for I know you well enough now to believe you would not hesitate to condemn me if I had. But in light of all you have just told me I wished to be sure." His glance at her is almost shy, his half-smile regretful on her behalf. "You have had more than enough experience of having your wishes overlooked, I think."

There is something rather endearing about his blushing response, making the corners of her lips curve into a tiniest of smiles for a moment and dispelling any further, gentle rebuke concerning the topic.

"A small lifetime's worth, it sometimes feels like," she agrees with a small sigh, but swiftly shakes her head a little as if to clear it from such self-pitying thought, for all that it strikes true to her. Now, it feels even more awkward to tell Faramir about her folly regarding Aragorn, but if she doesn't do this now, she is not certain she ever will.

"But, I said there was more to the tale. Once Théoden regained his mind and vitality, I thought I could at last shake off the yoke of being a nursemaid and a servant-- for I was a shieldmaiden, was I not? Moreover, I fancied myself in love with Lord Aragorn, but I see now it was never that. Admiration for a noble and puissant lord and liege, for certain. But more, through him I perceived the means to escape the cage I felt closing in around myself. Sharing in his power, I could be uplifted myself, far above the wretchedness of an inglorious life; Wormtongue's poison still flowing through my veins, though I realized it not, then. All saw my regard for Lord Aragorn and rejoiced in it, for he had become a hero to Rohan. But it was naught but folly. It shames me to even think it, now."

She frowns and her lips twist into a grimace, chagrined. "But he was yet another to reject my suit, both to join him battle and for more. He saw my plight more clearly than I, I think. It is but a shadow and a thought that you love. I cannot give you what you seek, he told me. True words, but at the time... they brought me lower still than I already was. Heartbroken. What was left? I could not fight, could not govern, could not choose my own fate, it seemed. It was the final drop into a vessel about to overflow, and so I rode to ruin with the Rohirrim in disguise, for my desperation blinded my to aught else. I saw no other glory left than that one final, fell deed in battle before death that would be remembered. If I could not control anything else, I could at least control this."

She exhales deeply as if released under some unseen weight finally with the whole story out in the open, shoulders lowering and chin dipping. Her free hand picks at the simple frock she's wearing under the mantle at the knee, as if ridding it of some invisible lint. She cannot look Faramir in the eyes yet. "And the rest, you know. There you have it; the whole sorry tale of Èowyn of Rohan as it unfolded."

Edited 2018-10-09 12:19 (UTC)

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may we please have them still alive though? Scouring of the Shire is important

y, it's why i left it vague. also bc i really need a re-read of the books tbh

I reread them in bits online a looooot. So much research, heigh ho!

so, so much, yes ;;

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