faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

"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."

It is a suggestion which Éowyn does not fail to pick up on, humming slightly in acknowledgement. She is not certain what he could learn about her by playing with her that he doesn't already know; that she is too impatient, even a little aggressive. But, she is not opposed to playing, sometime. She thinks she is well past the days when she might have hurled the pieces in frustration...

"You truly do not enjoy that tea," Éowyn says a little wryly with a soft laugh as she takes his arm, similarly not thinking much of the gesture anymore. If the brew is what daunts him the most about the prospect...! "But motivations aside, your idea has wisdom to it. Now, where shall we secure what we need to play?"

"I deeply, passionately, and fervently do not," Faramir agrees at once, an expression of distaste crossing his face, playing up his dislike a little to amuse her. Though it does not require much acting on his part. "I fully admit all its virtuous qualities and efficacy in healing. But it tastes like dirt. Bitter dirt." He sighs. "No doubt our return will cause another pot of it to appear; I am only surprised the Warden has not sent someone to chase me down with some before now. At first when I heard someone approach me, I thought that might be the reason. I was most glad to find it was you instead!"

His sly grin makes the words more a jest than a compliment, for all their truth.

"As for cards and dice, I have both. One of my fellow Rangers left them for me, in case I needed amusement. Where shall we play?"

The atrium will be too cold at this time of night. But the dining areas would be free enough, or either of their own chambers.

Faramir succeeds in his endeavor, pulling a chuckle out of her. "I know what I must do should I ever wish to disappoint you, then," she jests back, before adding maybe a little too truthfully, "Not that I would wish for such a thing."

The question merits a moment of pause, as Éowyn mentally goes through their options. "Perhaps we run a slightly smaller risk of being beset by the Warden's minions-- and their dreaded tea--" she smiles a bit crookedly at that, "--if we remove ourselves to either of our quarters?" Another tiny pause. "Mine? They would not look for you there, I think."

Little does she realize.

He hesitates, if only for a moment. It is not exactly beyond the bounds of propriety, in the circumstances. But she is sister to the king of Rohan, a noble lady of great reputation, and the hour is growing late. The fact that neither of them is in any fit physical state for impropiety would not weigh highly with the court--or, he suspects, with her brother.

The question of whether or not either of them--if she--would wish to, he ruthlessly crushes in his mind. By every last one of the Valar, this is not the time. And if later he will kick himself and think wistfully of impossible might-have-been scenarios, well, that will be later and he will keep them entirely to himself.

"On the contrary, if they could not find me, I suspect you would be one of the first they would think to ask. The more so as you have been assisting them and might be persuaded to join them in coercing me in to downing the stuff." That would be the reason, of course, and not that they have spent the better part of the past several days in each other's company. Which the Warden has noticed, making a point of commenting to Faramir that the lady Eowyn's health has noticeably improved in that interim, and offering his thanks. Faramir knows he has been damnably transparent to perhaps everyone except the lady herself, and that exception solely because she is not yet willing to let herself see the truth of things.

Unless she does and is merely taking pity on him, but that possibility is one he tries not to dwell on. He waves a hand, a gesture of accepting the inevitable. "We may as well leave the door open so they may find me as they will. I have no wish to be subjected to another lecture about the importance of listening to one's healers; the one this morning was more than enough. I should at least leave it another day before forcing our poor Warden to repeat it."

And with the door open, no one can accuse them of anything untoward.

Éowyn feels a tiny stab of chagrin at catching on to the issue so late, followed closely by a small flare of frustration. These unwritten rules of propriety! She thinks it all a little foolish, this prevalent assumption that a man and a woman alone in any space must always be up to something untoward. Or at the very least, planning something of the sort. None would think twice of two women or two men -- friends, just like herself and Faramir -- in the same situation. But it is what it is, foolish and annoying or not; she certainly does not wish any trouble on Faramir over something so silly.

Whether or not there could be some truth to such assumptions -- were they both not still convalescing -- she refuses to even entertain. For several reasons.

"As you say," she merely agrees with a small nod of acknowledgement, keeping her thoughts to herself. With a hint of humor edging her tone, she goes on, "Then, I suppose there is nothing to it. You shall have to prepare yourself for the risk of possibly having to drink more of that tea in the near future..."

In truth Faramir thinks it all a little foolish as well, but he knows the dangers of rumor too well to disregard them. And some rumors are likely already flying through the city. He is the Steward, and she slew the Witch-king. Whether they like it or not, anything they do is of note, and being enclosed here is only some protection--and that protection mostly in that few of the rumors will be repeated in his ears, or hers.

He makes a mental note to ask Húrin about that, on the morrow. For now..."Is there a plant in your chamber in need of watering?" he asks hopefully. "Or if the window looks East, perhaps that might be made useful..."

Éowyn cannot help her laugh at that; as short as it is, it is all pure amusement. "Perhaps there might be one or two such plants."

She glances over with a look that is caught between teasing and conspiratorial. "But surely, my lord, you are not planning on any such underhanded means of ridding yourself of the brew? I seem to recall your reluctance earlier when I first suggested something akin to an accident."

"I suggested no such matter," Faramir says, the picture of innocence. "I merely enquired as to the state of your room. After all, it was I who offered it to you, and it is incumbent on me to make sure you are well contented with it and its contents."

"Ah. You are considerate indeed, my lord, to take such interest," she returns surprisingly evenly, pinching her lips together for a moment in effort to stem a smile of amusement that threatens to tug the corners of her mouth up, her gaze cast on the path ahead.

"Thank you," he says solemnly. "As Steward of Gondor, it is of course my responsibility to ensure that all houseplants are watered regularly, and that the windows open and close as they should. Anything else would reflect poorly on the honor of my city."

He looks and sounds far more lighthearted than he did when she found him by the walls, his shoulders less slumped and tense, and his eyes merry.

"All of them? Your pardon, my lord, but one might think that as the Steward, you had more pressing duties than that." Éowyn arches a brow, her tone edged with a hint of fond teasing now. "Or, perhaps the state of my houseplants and windows specifically is an issue of some diplomatic import?"

There's a tiny smirk of amusement on her lips now. She has not failed to notice the lifting of his spirits, feeling similarly less gloomy herself since meeting up with him once more.

"What could be more important than seeing to the comfort of the city's most distinguished guests of honour?" He grins at her, unabashed. "And I did say it was important to Gondor to be sure its allies from Rohan were treated well."

He stops, for his rooms lie to the right, and hers to the left. With a little reluctance, he lets go her arm. "Here, lady; I will to my room and fetch our gaming tools, and meet you in but a few minutes."

Any sassy response she may have had about her comfort not being all that dependent on houseplants dissipates at being subjected to that endearing grin, almost boyish in its earnestness. She only manages a soft laugh instead, shaking her head a bit helplessly. "You did indeed say so..."

She halts as well, nodding a little in acknowledgement as they slowly let the contact of their arms sever. "Of course. Join me in my quarters when you may."

It is naught but a polite invitation already agreed upon, but Éowyn turns quickly with one last, quick smile to hide the warmth of a faint blush on her cheeks, those foolish thoughts about propriety from earlier coming back to haunt her-- if only for a moment. She casts them out of her mind briskly, making her way into her room and leaving the door open, grateful for the moment alone just to make sure her quarters are in a proper shape to receive a guest. Not that she has any possessions of her own to be messy with, but still.

He does not leave her waiting long. What little delay there is, is due to his taking care to be discreet, just in case. He is no elf, but he knows these halls well, and it is no great matter for a ranger to move silently when he wishes, even out of the woods.

And if his heart beats just a little more quickly when he knocks at the open door to her bedchamber, that is only his own foolishness, and not to be regarded. It is hardly an invasion of her privacy. For one thing, he is not uninvited; for another she has but little of her own here, and the room is spare. One of the better ones, for she is a distinguished guest of the city, and so is appointed a larger room with better fittings, a small bookshelf, a small table and chairs as well as the bed. His is much the same, but rather more cluttered.

Still, he waits for her to invite him in after he knocks, for it is her room for the moment. He does lean against the doorframe. "A great advantage of your room over mine," he says quietly, smiling ruefully, "is that mine is rather covered with books and maps, and other assorted things. I am not sure I would have a seat to offer you."

Éowyn is in the process of carefully shrugging the starry mantle from her shoulders when Faramir knocks, mindful of her arm. She chuckles quietly at his remark, distracting herself from how handsome he looks standing there by draping the garment across the foot of the bed.

"Well then, you are welcome to avail yourself to one of mine. Please." She motions with her good hand at the table and chairs, indicating that he ought to take a seat. "Perhaps in return you might lend me a book that is not poetry, for that seems to be more or less all my shelf here is stocked with."

"A good portion of mine are poetry too, I'm afraid," he confesses, taking the offered seat and sighing a little. "A few books on tactics, and now far too many on infrastructure, in which I am gaining a rapid education. The rest are histories of various sorts. If any of those are to your liking, you are welcome to them." He looks up at her, head tilted just a little to the side. "Do you dislike poetry, then?"

"No. Well, not all poetry. But..." Éowyn trails off, her gaze roaming the walls as she thinks, biting her lip in thought. "I suppose I do not always understand it all. And I dislike having to labor so to unearth the true meaning behind the words and turns of phrases. I much prefer plainer speak."

Even as she says that, the words feel somehow hollow; a pretense of some sort. They make her feel a sudden, uncomfortable knot somewhere behind her breastbone. Hypocritical-- that's the word. A frown crosses her features briefly before she banishes it for a more neutral expression, moving to take a seat opposite of Faramir.

"So, what shall we play, then?" she asks a bit more lightly, changing the subject.

He watches her quietly, noting the frown, but does not contest this explanation. Instead he holds up the cards, shuffles them, and proceeds to teach her a fairly simple game that may be played even with only two players. They have nothing to bet, but he can keep the score in his head even if she cannot.

It is a child's game, in truth, and more than a little silly. But silly was the goal, or part of it. And it lets him tell her a few more stories of his own childhood, including the time he and Boromir played and bet with their assortment of hard-boiled sweets from Boromir's birthday, and both lost because they ate all their winnings at once and were sick half the night as a result.

The game he teaches her is simple and silly, indeed, but Éowyn hardly minds. It is actually a pleasant diversion from everything else, and they play several hands, each taking turns winning and losing. She enjoys the artlessness of spending time with him like this; he is not the Steward of Gondor and she is not the sister of the King of Mark. They are simply Faramir and Éowyn, playing a game intended for children and speaking easily of fond memories, laughing and smiling.

And if at times their gazes meet and hold over the table for longer than necessary, well.

Time passes almost too swiftly and the hour grows late; late enough, eventually, that even the open door won't save them from ill gossip, the passing servants having already given them curious enough glances from the hallway. Reluctantly, Éowyn bids Faramir good night, eyes soft when he takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles in farewell. Against all odds, she goes to bed that night feeling... content.

Such contentment is torn from her the next day, faced with the hard reality that morning in the gardens. The sun is hidden and dull grayness blankets the world, so very dreary. It has grown cold-- and silent, so eerily silent. A hard, chilling wind had risen from the North and kept hammering the City, merciless. The starry mantle about Éowyn's frame is normally warm, but now she shivers under its luxurious weight as she stands by the wall, gazing out into the hard wind and toward the faraway land where their fate would be decided. She feels it in her gut; today the world stands on a brink, on a knife's edge.

She feels Faramir's presence beside her rather than sees or hears it, eyes peeled above the mountains where the sky is clear and hard and foul. Would that this day were like the others earlier, where they stood together by this wall and walked about the gardens, and spoke of things they have not confessed to any other. But it is not. There is no postponing fate any longer, for good or for ill. Éowyn finds she is unexpectedly frightened by the prospect.

"Must they not now come thither, the Black Gate? It has been seven days since he rode away." Her brother, or lord Aragorn-- it is uncertain as to whom she talks about specifically.

They meet in the morning without it being planned; by now it is natural to them both to seek each other's company. Faramir looks stronger than he did the previous day, the restful evening and a night of untroubled sleep having done him obvious good. He too went to bed, if not content, at least more lighthearted than he has been.

But the morning dawns ominous, cold and grey, with an ill wind blowing. Worse than all is the sense that a stroke long prepared is about to fall. It is not only Faramir who feels it--all do, and Éowyn not least. They keep close to each other for comfort as much as company. Merry chooses to keep inside by a fire rather than join them, and indeed many of the residents of the House seek the fireside, hoping the warmth and companionship will be a bulwark against unnamed fears.

But they two go to the wall, as they so often do, and this time Faramir does not look down at his city, but East. There have been no tidings of the armies of the West, as he has told all who have asked him. They are all in the dark.

He only hopes they may not be so in truth. On this day all things feel tenuous, and he feels more keenly how easily all things might break--his newfound, infinitely precious bond with the White Lady of Rohan included. So he stands close by her, and whenever he is not looking East, his eyes rest on her.

"Seven days," Faramir answers. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn..."

He hesitates, because he has waited and knows he should wait longer, for several reasons. And yet if all is about to fall, to darken...he would have her know. He places his hand on the wall next to hers, so that their fingers just touch. "Éowyn...I would not have this world end now. Nor lose so soon what I have found."

Éowyn closes her eyes at his words and the minute touch of their fingers, a roil of emotion churning within her; the joy he speaks of but also cold dread and uncertainty. For if the world is to end here... can she face it with such gentle confessions in mind, with regrets of what may have perhaps been? And yet, what if the world does not come to ruin? What then? Torn such, she trembles, but not from the chill this time, the sound of her name falling from his lips still echoing in her ears.

"Lose what you have found, lord? I know not what in these dark days you have found that you could not lose." But though her face is grave, her gaze is kind when she opens her eyes and glances at Faramir. She does know-- she knows of what he speaks. "But come, my friend. Let us not speak of it. Let us not speak at all!"

She draws in a shuddering breath, another shiver coursing through her and that unnamed fear tightening its hold on her heart. It feels akin to a dream; a nightmare fading already from memory upon waking. "I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom."

Her eyes are kind, and he sees acknowledgement there. That is no small matter, for she has deliberately turned away from even that much these past days, whenever he has strayed too near the coundary of friendship that he now skirts and longs to cross.

But he sees also uncertainty, and he knows not if it is because of the strangeness of the day, of the moment, or because she does not know how to answer him. Hope and doubt smite him in turn, each succeeding the other. "Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," he says quietly, and looks back towards the horizon with her.

Everything becomes abruptly still. It is not his imagination: the wind dies, all sound hushes, and all suddenly darkens in truth, as Shadowed as it has been in his nightmares. His heart almost stops in his chest, and even his half-confession of a moment before and her less than half an answer are forgotten in the great silence of the moment. There is no hint of sound, not birdsong nor speech, and it seems to him they both have stopped breathing. No thing living or unliving moves.

But no, one thing does: he seizes her hand, or perhaps she seizes his, and they stand handfast side by side as they wait in awe and terror. It could be any amount of time that they and the world stand frozen, minutes, hours, an Age.

And then above the distant mountains a great darkness rises, greater even than the one which has fallen over the earth, one that contains fire and lightning. It reaches to the sky as though it will fall over them and engulf all things, and a great tremor runs from its heart in all directions, shaking the ground beneath their feet. As though the tremor is was a great heartbeat the spell is abruptly broken, and things move and breathe again, and Faramir finds himself trembling. "It reminds me of Númenor," someone says, and with astonishment he realizes it was himself who said it. He would have thought he had no words, had forgotten them and all language entirely.

Éowyn sucks in a sharp breath, then holds it without even realizing she does so-- poised and steeling herself for whatever comes next. The hush that falls over them and the whole land is complete, seeming to still even the very beat of their hearts. She squeezes Faramir's hand tightly in hers as the darkness rises and surges, similarly without even noticing she does so.

And then, long at last; it is akin to a great sigh that follows the tremor that runs through the whole land, all of the City, the ground beneath their feet trembling. She gasps, lungs burning as she draws in breath again, her frame quivering the same as Faramir's.

"Of Númenor?" Éowyn prods after a beat, voice quiet and uncertain; questioning as she tries to understand what is happening, eyes still peeled on the horizon.

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even if she isn't, he's quick at ducking, so his head would probably be fine ;)

the most fearsome foe he's ever faced; éowyn's temper and a rogue chess piece lmao

Nah, the Witch King's still got her beat. Er, as it were. ;)

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The contrast between this scene and the other two is just hilarious to me.

it's true lmao

"Oh no! Propriety!" "...........actually can I just shag you on the kitchen floor please?"

no shagging here yet, just propriety. woe :(

He's thought about it! ...though at this point he'd be embarassed as hell to admit it!

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suddenly stuck. Have we anything else we'd like them to discuss this evening?

timeskip it is!

/rubs hands in anticipation

yesss, so good

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