faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

"I understand." Èowyn nods sagely, affecting just such understanding. She's having a difficult time indeed, keeping her own amusement at bay. "Would it help if I were to look away?"

"I would never propose such a thing." He is solemn, now, and his eyes do not twinkle at all. Truly. "But how is your own tea?"

"It is a good thing, then, that it was I who proposed it instead of you, my lord," she says primly, similarly not at all holding at bay her amusement. At the question, she remembers her own brew, picking up her half-empty cup and glancing down at the contents.

"Less distasteful than yours in flavor at least, I imagine. Chamomile-- the Warden seems more concerned with soothing my mind than my bodily aches, which are thankfully less today."

And if perhaps the Warden has the right of it with his decision, Èowyn says nothing of it out loud.

The instant she looks down at her own cup, Faramir deftly empties the contents of his into the bush she pointed out earlier, conveniently only a foot away from where he sits.

"Ah," he says sagely, replacing his empty cup on the tray. "Well then, as I seem to have finished mine, and I have heard that fresh air is as beneficial for soothing the mind as anything else, shall we walk a little while instead?"

He still isn't laughing, but it's taking some effort.

"Have you, now? Your timing is most convenient." Her glance is knowing and amused as she follows suit and places her cup on the tray, nodding at his suggestion. "We shall! I should be glad for the exercise, even if it is to see the same surroundings we have viewed too many a time to count, by now."

"And as I have not yet had any exercise this day, no doubt it would be good for me." He stands and walks around the table before offering her his arm. "Though speaking of unusual sights, I had noticed your hair. Is this how you would usually wear it, in Rohan?"

"Oh!" She touches her free hand briefly to her hair while the other takes his arm, slightly self-consciously. "No, not usually. I often leave it unbound, less some task or decorum demands it put up and out of the way. I suppose I wanted something different today."

If it had something to do with what she'd told Faramir just a moment ago, the rest of her tale, even she couldn't say. Èowyn hums a little, continuing, "Though the maid who put it up this morning made many an unhappy face and protest. She seemed to think bound hair fit for married women and worried I might be sending the wrong message. I did not know such unwritten rules existed over ladies' hair, of all things."

She chuckles in amusement. Perhaps it was the maid's own idea, for surely not even Gondorian etiquette was quite so fussy.

Amusement flickers across his face, and he nods. "It is a custom in Gondor for women to keep their hair loose while they are maids, and only wear it fully bound up after marriage, or when reaching a certain age." He shrugs. "It is a little impractical, for any woman who of any age who works will tie her hair back at least informally when needed, as you must have noticed from observing the healers and apprentices here. The tradition has more importance among the nobility."

Who do not work with their hands so much as ladies in Rohan, evidently. At least, not in the ordinary run of things. No doubt the maid worried Eowyn would be thought to be already married, or stating an intent not to wed at all--but that aspect he does not mention.

"Oh," Èowyn utters again on the heels of Faramir's explanation, this time mildly chagrined. "I had no idea. Perhaps I ought to apologize to the maid, then. I thought she was simply being silly."

The mild stab of mortification soon transforms into wry amusement, and she huffs a tiny breath of laughter at her own expense. "Now I cannot help but wonder how many Gondorian customs I have unwittingly slighted already."

"Perhaps," he agrees. "But you are not of Gondor, and are in the Houses of Healing besides. This is hardly a place where formal court etiquette is required--and even if it were, your own traditions should be honored as well. So whether your hair is up or loose has no siginificance, beyond practicality or beauty?"

Yes, he is actually interested. Partly because he wishes to know about Rohirric customs--and his motivations there are better left unsaid for now--but also he simply is interested in other cultures and their symbolism in general.

Èowyn shakes her head a little with a small, helpless smile; again, she has to wonder at his forbearance and understanding. "No significance, no. I am trying to remember if Morwen brought any such traditions from the country of her birth with her, but am coming up short. Ours can be a harsh land and my folk pride themselves on practicality and straightforwardness above all else-- in all things."

There are traditions not related to personal grooming she could tell him about, certainly, but mostly they revolve around certain holidays or courtship-- not a subject she's that comfortable broaching with him.

"That is not to say we do not have some customs that, speaking frankly, must seem foolish to outsiders, but those often have to do with horses." Her smile grows a little crooked. "Much to your utter surprise, I am certain."

He laughs outright at that, a sound that rings in the courtyard as they walk outside. "That, I do not doubt! But I imagine there are good reasons for them, given the quality of your horseflesh. And remember I am a soldier, lady; practicality is less a virtue and more a thing unavoidable, in my life."

At least, his life as it was. Now that he is Steward...but that thought is for later, and he resolutely pushes it aside. They have had enough dark talk for a time.

"At any rate, yes, there are a number of Gondorian customs, no doubt many of them too seem foolish to outsiders. Still, in here I doubt you've run afoul of any enough to cause offense. Though as regards any involving hair or fashion, you will be better off seeking tutelage from your maid than from me."

"I do not know about that! I certainly struggle to find sense in some of the old beliefs that hold fast even to this day," Èowyn laughs a little herself, warmed to the core by the sound of Faramir's mirth in the wake of these past day or two and the dour news they have brought.

"For instance I might tell you that no king of Mark or captain of stature and sense would ever ride a gelding, for the horse and the rider are one-- and such would bode ill if the lord is to wish himself success in... that area." She purses her lips against a grin of sly amusement, glancing sideways at him.

Faramir laughs again, a hooting sort of sound. It is more mirth than the conversation perhaps warrants, but the amusement feels as though it is unloosening something, some lingering tension or fear from the dreadful night that has passed. "Then I fear my own reputation in the Mark will suffer, for I always make a point of riding mares! They are more steady, more intelligent--and less foolish, in my experience."

He grins openly at her, unabashed. "Moreover...my brother Boromir, when he was younger, was of a similar mind to your folk, and wished only the most fierce and fiery stallions to ride. That lasted right up until the day when, during a practice sortie, his stallion scented a mare in heat and broke formation to get at her. Boromir landed flat on his rump in the mud, while remaining near enough to get...rather an educational view of the proceedings. He never lived that down, and only rode geldings thereafter." He chuckles, looking into the past without grief or regret, in this moment, only pleasure at the memory and the sharing of it. "I can only assume that, in accordance with your reputation, your people are better skilled at keeping your horses controlled when they are in season. Or at least wise enough not to ride them at such times. Though the foal that was eventually born of that day was an excellent one, and even worth the humiliation of the experience, or so Boromir claimed, no doubt to having been sired on a battlefield. So perhaps there is something to be said for it after all."

Edited 2018-10-15 20:33 (UTC)

"I would say you've made a wise decision. Mares are all of those things." The look she gives him is of quiet approval, returning his grin with a smile of her own that grows a bit crooked as she adds, "Were I to be pert, I would claim it may not only apply to horses."

But she would never! There is absolutely no knowing gleam of sly mirth in her eyes, at all. Faramir's tale of Boromir's misfortune with his amorous stallion downright startles a loud peal of laughter out of her, one of utter amusement, and she claps her free hand over her mouth to quiet her chuckles. She has to take a moment to recover from imagining such a scene, a trace of laughter still clinging to her voice when she does. "Your poor brother! Those proceedings can get rather... exuberant sometimes. But, least he was compensated for the injury to his pride with a fine new horse."

Èowyn can't help it, a little snort escapes her anew. Clearing her throat, she does her best to sober, humming a little as if conceding Faramir's point. "Perhaps. It is a silly superstition if you ask me, and not all hold to it, but some old beliefs die a slow, hard death in the Mark." Certain machismo was certainly alive and well in Rohan.

Faramir gives her a solemn look, only his eyes and the faint curve of his smile betraying him. "But of course, you are not so pert. Even though you are correct."

Clearly, the lack of foolishness is a quality shared by both the man and the horses he chooses. And his pleasure at having made her laugh with this tale is obvious. "Alas, he did not keep the foal, for the mare was not his--though he did charge a handsome stud fee, and watched the resulting issue with interest, claiming himself as an honorary godfather of sorts to him by virtue of his having overseen the conception." His eyes are fond, remembing his brother with love and laughter for once, and no echo of pain. "Some did challenge his masculinity thereafter, when he stuck only to geldings. But that never availed them much satisfaction, for he had but to challenge them to a duel, and there was none who could defeat him in single combat, and few even who could match him for a time."

The smile fades just a hair. Such a warrior, and yet he had fallen in the end. Though Faramir knows, as almost no others do, that there were other reasons for that fall. Then he shrugs, dismissing the thought for now and turning his attention back to her. "So then, if the horse and rider are one, and therefore the men feel is necessary to thus make blatant their masculinity--" There is humor in his voice, but he is not unkind in how he says it. "In that case, what do the women? What of your own horses?"

Èowyn says nothing in return, but her lips twitch and the quick glance she gives him is, yet again, of approval. The thought of Boromir being an honorary godfather to a horse draws a soft chuckle out of her, but she spends the rest of the story Faramir tells her in respectful silence. Her hand on his arm tightens a little in a wordless gesture of support when he finishes, knowing how much losing his brother still pains Faramir. As it would continue to for years to come, she is certain; she would be no better in his stead.

When he turns the talk back to horses and beliefs about them in Rohan, she smiles a little wryly.

"The women choose as they please, and are much wiser for it! I have had my gray steed, Windfola, for years now. A gelding, as I have naught to prove and no patience for tomfoolery such as what befell your brother with his mount," she cracks a small grin of amusement at that, but sobers soon as she goes on. "He is a fine horse, bred for battle and runs like a fiend. Alas, we were unhorsed in the melee, Merry and I, and I now fear what has become of Windfola. Normally, I would say he is too cunning, swift and hardy to come to any harm, but Pelennor was no ordinary circumstance. I can only hope he escaped the fray and avoided injury."

Her hand on his arm is a welcome comfort, as it has been so often these past few days. How can it have only been a few days since they met? It seems far longer, and yet no time at all. No time at all for his world to have completely reordered itself as it has done.

Not yet.

Faramir's eyebrow raises just a little when Eowyn claims she has naught to prove--nothing when it comes to riding a horse, perhaps, but the rest of her life has sounded otherwise to him. But he lets it pass. "He does sound an excellent horse," he agrees. "And perhaps it might be possible to discover what has become of him. There were many such horses recovered from the Pelennor once the battle ended, I know. Many were pressed into service with the Captains gone West, but..." He frowns, considering who he might speak to on the matter. A horse of obvious Rohirric breeding and training rather than Gondorian, so likely it would have been given back to the Riders of the Mark once found, if found...it is at least worth asking. "It is possible," he repeats, then smiles for her. "Shall we see? It may take a few days or more to discover, but such a valiant horse is worth the search, is he not?"

Hope surges within her breast, her fingers tightening a little against his arm once more, unconsciously.

"May we? Yes. Please-- I would be grateful. I had hoped I might look for him, but stuck in these Houses... and it appeared--" She draws in a deep breath, searching for the right words. "Unseemly, to worry about one horse amidst all this. No matter how dear."

There are no guarantees, she realizes, but if there is even a small a chance, she must take it. She's silent for a moment, thinking. "A Marshal or a Captain of the Rohirrim there would be in the City, left in charge of those men of the Mark who stayed behind. He might know more of the recovered horses, Rohirric and Gondorian alike."

He nods confirmation of this. "Éothain, I believe; I met him briefly a few days ago, and have spoken to him through letters on various matters. He remained behind due to an injury, but not an extensive one, and is quartered in the barracks with those others of the Riddermark who remained and are not confined here. Would he know your horse, do you think?"

He smiles at her, and adds, "I do not think it unseemly to worry about a horse any more than to worry about a person. It is for the world and people--and animals--that we love that we fight at all; if we did not, the war would have little meaning."

She smiles a little at his reassurance that yet again proves him to be a rather singular man; is there no flaw to be found in him? Éowyn knows that is unlikely to be true, but she is in no hurry to discover such. "Éothain? He might. If not by name, then by description. He rides with Éomer's éored, and knows horses in general better still than any Rider commonly would. I am glad to hear he was not hurt badly."

She does not look forward to learning the names of all those men who did not make it-- if the threat of Mordor was overthrown, they would all still have much to mourn in the wake of this War.

He would argue that he has many flaws, he is merely taking some pains not to display them to her. No doubt she will discover them all in time, whatever comes of this stay--though the truth is he has been in the habit of hiding his faults as best he may for years, and most particularly when in Minas Tirith. It did not avail him much, but at least it made things no worse. Or so he has always hoped. And much of the need is now gone, though it has been replaced by an authority which will render the habit just as necessary, perhaps.

Thoughts for another day; those wounds are still far too raw, and they are speaking of her for a time, which he is far happier doing. "I am surprised he has not already sought you out, truthfully, though it is possible the Warden has been limiting outside guests for you as he has for me, that we might heal the more thoroughly before returning to other cares. He was most relieved to know you yet lived, I deem, even though your brother had already informed him as such. You and I had not yet met, and I fear the incident had all but slipped my mind. I do not doubt he would come in an instant if you sent for him."

"No doubt the Warden has done just that," Éowyn says by way of agreement, her lips twisting into a brief mien of irritability just for a second. Yes, the Warden has his patients' best interests at heart, but she has felt quite fine and capable for a few days, now, and in no need of such mollycoddling. If anything, penning her up like this with nothing to preoccupy herself with is only making her more agitated. She knows not how she would have managed this convalescence without Faramir's company, and her own insinuation into the sick wards to help the healers in their work.

"I would rather go down myself, but I foresee another battle with the Warden on my hands at that idea." She pinches her lips a little in momentary indecision. Perhaps discretion is the better part of valor, here. "So I will do as you say, and send for Éothain later today." It will be good to hear his thoughts, and not merely on horses.

Faramir hears the irritation in her voice, and manages to not react beyond the faint raise of an eyebrow, for he would argue with Éowyn's assessment of herself. Her own strength belies her, for while she has grown in stamina every day, she is still more weak than he judges she should be. The Black Breath is not lightly overthrown. Her arm too still heals, for all that it is taken from its sling.

No, he does not begrudge the Warden his caution, on either of their parts. Though it is perhaps as well that he does not say so. And it is true the lady needs more to occupy her quick, restless mind, even if her body needs recovering. This seems a good compromise. One he suspects will be welcome to Éothain as well, promoted beyond his usual authority.

Though Faramir does wonder how the Rider will judge Éowyn for her desertion of her appointed duty. The impression he'd had was that the man was too much awed by Éowyn's feats on the battlefield, which carry great weight with her warlike folk, to judge her for desertion even if it had been his place to do it. But he wonders about the outcome of the meeting all the same. If Eowyn was troubled by meeting with the injured Riders, how much more with this? But it is a meeting that must happen sooner or later, and it would comfort her to know of Windfola's fate.

"I hope he will have news for you," he says simply. "And perhaps work for you to do. I do not doubt there is much that needs to be done, though I hope those I have delegated responsibility to have used their powers wisely. If he speaks of aught they lack, will you tell me? I would not have the Riders of the Mark neglected; Gondor owes your country a very great debt, more than could be repaid."

It is a good thing Faramir keeps his silence on the matter, indeed, even if he is correct. For he very much is, but Éowyn does not see things that way; impatient and proud to the last. And discontent. Near constantly that, for all that she has gotten slightly less dour these past few days, and can find no fault in the company or the standard of care she has received in these Houses. It is none of those things that bothers her, but something far more intangible. And though she wonders the same thing as Faramir regarding Èothain's reaction to her dereliction of duty, she knows she cannot outrun the issue forever. Her own need for news outweighs her uncertainty in this.

"Of course I will," she agrees with a nod, a little belatedly from her ruminations. "Pray, do not trouble yourself overly. I am certain the Rohirrim have been housed and cared for with due honor and diligence."

Anything else seems dubious to her, but soon she would see. They walk on for a good while longer in the gardens together, at times in comfortable silence and at others speaking of less serious things, until going their separate ways to tend to their business. Èowyn sends for Èothain and meets with the Rider, spending a good while in conversation with him. How good it feels to speak in her own tongue for a change! But alas, that -- along with Èothain's happy agreement to share with her what work he possibly could without risking the Warden's wrath -- is at large the best news he could deliver her. But at least she could reassure Faramir the Rohirrim were indeed lacking no such thing that could be arranged by their hosts.

Suppertime comes along a while later with a maid toting a laden tray, and Èowyn finds herself with no appetite to speak of. Much to the displeasure of the maid who returns to find the stew in the bowl merely picked at. Éowyn ignores her clucking and asks her instead to help take down her hair, rubbing at the back of her head with some relief once her hair hangs down her back again. She remembers now why she rarely wears her hair up; the aching scalp is not worth it. The walls of her room seem to close in on her again, so she dons the starry mantle over her gown and leaves her quarters, restlessness mingling with other less than favorable emotions. It is a while yet before folk begin to seek their beds; there would be time enough to roam for a bit in search of calm. Perhaps even for a cup of that blasted tea.

both are a+ icons

I love them so.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

timeskip for a smidge?

let the skipping commence!