faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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.

It is a pleasant, quiet afternoon, one that no doubt the Warden would approve. Having said so much to each other they now find it easier to merely be silent at times, for they are comfortable enough with each other's presence to not find that silence a weight or an awkward tension. That is a welcome thing, and one that Faramir thinks would not have been the case even a few days ago.

But Eowyn is still a little restless, impatient to meet with her countryman, and Faramir is all too aware of how much work awaits him, for all that he is limited in what he can do. She goes to meet with Èothain, he with Hurin of the Keys, who is acting his part in the ordering of the city during his incapacitation.

It is a long, difficult meeting. To Hurin, Faramir intends to tell the truth of his father's death. But it does not surprise him to learn that the man already knows, having heard it from the servants, and having held that knowledge until he judged Faramir more ready to hear. It saves him a painful repetition of the story, though it makes the meeting no less difficult. Hurin, entirely loyal to the city and to the line of Stewards, was not blind to the difficulties between father and son, and has known Faramir since boyhood. They both have much to grieve.

And much to arrange. The House of the Stewards is burned, beyond any repair; but the area must be cleaned. Hurin strongly advises Faramir to leave it in his hands, and to attend to different matters in the city. Reuctantly, but knowing this is wisdom, he agrees.

They talk together for much longer than the hour the Warden had allotted them, putting together plans for all eventualities. The city's defense, its further evacuation, its recovery...when whatever blow they await falls, whether it is the smashing of a hammer or the breaking of a chain, they will need to act quickly, which means plans must be ready to be acted on in advance, not thrown together at the last moments.

Faramir does not remember eating his supper, though an empty plate at the end of the meeting is evidence that he did. When he finally parts from Hurin he goes for a walk, but avoids the people of the House, choosing instead fresh air and solitude. It is dark, but what is the dark to a Ranger of Ithilien? Even with the moon covered, it is nothing to cross the garden paths until he reaches the wall overlooking the city. There he stands for some time, looking down at the torches and firelight and shadows.

It is darker outside than Èowyn had expected once she makes it to the gardens, and she tugs and folds the mantle more closely and securely about her frame, fighting off a shiver as a gust of wind blows through the gardens. Even the pale face of the moon is hidden by thick, dark clouds that seem to obscure much, hanging heavily across the skies. And yet, there is a foreboding glow in the East, over the mountains; for once, Èowyn does not gaze over, knowing they near now the pivotal moment that will decide the ultimate fate of Middle-earth.

For a moment, she considers turning back. But she soon realizes there is something comforting too in this darkness, and she is not ready to relinquish that feeling. Once her eyes adjust to it properly, taking to the familiar trails becomes even easier, enjoying the moment alone with her thoughts. She is not expecting to run into anybody else on such a gloomy night, but upon nearing the particular wall, she spies a familiar figure silhouetted against the faint light from the torches and lanterns of the city below. Unmistakable, for there is none other in these Houses who would cut such a shape.

She does not for a moment think Faramir cannot hear her, so to leave now without acknowledging him would be rude. But she is not reluctant to approach, in the first place. She tugs the mantle closer about her body with a small shiver, stepping beside him to share in the view with a tiny puff of an exhale. "It grows so cold now. And dark." Darker, it seems to her than any normal night-- is it the looming shadow of Mordor stretching further, or her own imagination?

He does hear her approach, of course, though it takes a few minutes to recognize his fellow night wanderer as Èowyn; he assumes at first is is someone sent to fetch him back from the wall. But there is a trick to her footstep, to her breathing, that he recognizes, and knowing she will be coming to join him he does not turn until she is next to him.

"It is night," he points out, not without amusement; but he sighs a little almost at once, looking back over the city. "But you are right. I have been told that last night was darker yet, all the sky covered with some foul miasma of the Enemy. I fear I did not remark it at the time, being...otherwise distracted. But this--"

He looks out at the dark horizon, gestures towards it with a nod of his head. "This is drear indeed, but I would judge no worse than the last visage of winter. Or such is my hope." He sighs a little and rubs his forehead, which aches. His eyebrows ache, which ought to be impossible. "Perhaps I blind myself; I know not."

Faramir looks at her with a sudden, near-sheepish smile. "Pay me no mind, lady; I am tired, that is all. How went your meeting?"

Were Éowyn less troubled, she would have possibly rewarded his jesting remark with a smile. But she is not, and he goes on without much of a pause, regardless. She can't help another shiver at his response, wondering -- a little uncharacteristically, maybe -- if it is some ill omen of what's to come. The thought only adds to the churn of emotion within her.

Faramir rubs his forehead and draws suddenly her attention to the the fact that he looks weary indeed, even in this darkness that hides half of his features. A brief frown crosses her own face; he does not get enough rest. Is that any wonder, though? She accepts his change of topic with a slight nod, though the prick of concern lingers on.

"It was good to see Éothain and speak awhile in my own tongue. He assured me the Rohirrim are all housed and cared for most well and had no complaint or lack to bring forth." She falls silent for a moment. "Alas, he could tell me no horse matching Windfola's description had yet been recovered, but they are still receiving some stray ones daily. Éothain promised to send word straight away should they find him."

All she can do now is hope for the best. Those were not all the things they spoke about, of course, but some of them she feels a little raw over, still processing them herself.

It is uncharacteristic of Faramir, too, to wonder about ill omens. He believes in dreams, and in his own perception; he knows he sees farther than most men. But at the moment he knows he is too weary to trust his own thoughts, which tend darker than would normally be his wont.

He nods at her words, and reaches to rest his hand on hers on the wall for a moment--a gesture that would have required caution a scant few days ago, but which now happens without thought. "I am sorry he has not been found, though at least now you know he will be sought." Inwardly he vows to check with the Gondorian stablemasters also, just in case; it is unlikely Windfola would have made his way there by accident, for Rohirric horses are distinctive, but it will do no harm to ask.

He tilts his head, gauging her expression. "But something more weighs on your mind, does it not? Would you speak of it, or wait a whiles?"

Éowyn's fingers tremble slightly beneath his, and she draws in a slow, deep breath between slightly parted lips as if to fortify some inner resolve or another, nodding in silence her acknowledgement of his words. He is correct; at least, there is now that. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

At Faramir's question, she falters a little uncertainly, seeming lost for a moment.

"I do not know what to say, when I barely know what to think and how to feel of it," she finally gets out at length, sighing minutely. As hard as she tries to corral her thoughts into some order to begin unraveling it all, she finds she gets nowhere fast with it. Quietly, she asks, "May we talk of it later?"

"Of course," he answers at once, squeezing her fingers. "As and when you will, if you will."

He looks at her for a minute, then says, "I could offer distraction, perhaps. My singing voice is not worth the hearing, but surely I can find some activity that would suit. Do you play chess?"

The glance Éowyn gives him is grateful, before gazing down at their hands with a tiny nod. A faintest expression of amusement crosses her face when he disparages his singing voice, and she looks back up at him at the question.

"Do I play? That depends on your point of view, I suppose. I know the rules well enough, but have little skill for the finer points of the game." Her lips curve a little, wry and self-deprecating. Perhaps it has less to do with skill than it has with her lack of patience for strategies, is the implication. "We may play, if you wish to risk it."

"I am sure you underestimate yourself. Though if you would not find it diverting, we might do something else? Draughts, or some other thing." His face suddenly looks a little impish, and he chuckles. "Or I know a number of games of chance, if you prefer, and then all skill is irrelevant. Though it is as well we have little to bet with here, as I would not wish the King of Rohan to accuse me of demeaning his sister by gambling with her."

"I should not be so certain of that. Speaking of my brother, he might tell you a cautionary tale of how I threw my Rook at his head in a fit of temper upon losing to him for the fourth time in a row. He might still bear a small mark on his forehead. Granted, I was thirteen at the time, so I hope I am better at managing my disappointment today."

She issues a small chuckle of her own, glancing over with a smile and an arched brow. "But perhaps it would be safer if you taught me one of these games of luck. What my brother does not know cannot harm him."

"Now I am torn between wariness and curiosity!" Faramir laughs. "I would still be curious to try, someday if not now. I have found that you can learn a great deal about a person by playing chess with them."

A statement which suggests, with accuracy, that he is a very good player indeed, and his forehead would be in serious danger at the end of the match. For of course he would not go easy on her, nor let her win; that would be insulting, to say nothing of dishonest.

He turns and offers her his arm, a gesture by now automatic. There are times when he walks lately when it feels strange not to have her arm resting on his, or her nearby to hear his thoughts. A realization that does not surprise him, but which he is aware complicates matters. Even so, he welcomes the option now. "But in the interest of sparing my poor head--or more accurately, sparing me from the curse of yet more willowbark tea--let us try our hands at dice or cards instead. Then we may curse them instead of one another, when we lose."

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timeskip for a smidge?

let the skipping commence!

She can find him here or when he comes back, take your pick.

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