faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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.

"Yes," he says, his gaze too still locked on the far mountains, as though he might therefore discern what titanic event can have occurred there. That something has is unquestionable. The blow has fallen. But what blow, against whom? "Of the land of Westernesse that foundered and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

A cold shiver runs through her at the answer and unbeknownst to her, she shifts closer to him, her arm pressing flush against his and fingers of their clasped hands still entwined.

"Then you think that the Darkness is coming?" She swallows dryly, a hint of a shake in her voice. In that moment, she does not fail to recall that Faramir sees further and keener than most Men, fearing his words now in light of his gift. "Darkness unescapable?"

"No."

He looks at her then, and his expression is one of slowly growing wonder. "No, it was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days."

He squeezes her hand, marvelling anew at the feel of her fingers entangled with his. Although they have often held hands thus it suddenly feels a new thing, miraculous. "But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny."

He laughs a little in sudden amazement. "Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!" He bends and kisses her forehead, lifting their joined hands up against his heart.

In that moment a great wind arises, but unlike the torrents of this morning this one feels clean, a wind to sweep away an old season and herald in a new. And then the Sun bursts forth, bathing all things in golden light, and far off in the distance the river Anduin is a shining ribbon on the plains. Everything feels reborn.

From all over the city comes the sound of singing, and Faramir's heart too sings, but he keeps his lips pressed to Éowyn's brow, wonder-struck.

From fright and doubt, Éowyn's heart slowly turns to hope and marvel as Faramir goes on, unprepared when he suddenly stoops to press his lips to her brow in a gentle kiss after his exclamation; on a soft intake of breath, she closes her eyes and trembles anew, only not out of fear or chill. The great wind that rises and blows across all land tugs at their hair and clothing, and the Sun shows her brilliant face again, bringing light and warmth-- Éowyn feels it, but it cannot compete with the sensation of Faramir's lips, still pressed tenderly against her forehead, sending her pulse skittering.

Distantly at first, then growing in strength, come singing from the City below, the voices of men lifted in joy that wells in their hearts, though for what reason they could not name. Shock gives way to quiet joy also in Éowyn's breast. They are still standing here as before, hale, with the clear skies above them and the warmth of the Sun beaming down upon them. Could it be...?

And out of the East approaches a dark figure on wings, but no evil thing; for it is a great Eagle, wheeling over the City as it cries;

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

Silent tears run down Éowyn's cheeks even as she smiles, caught up in the marvel of it all. Below, the people cheer, their singing growing ever stronger, ever more joyful. "It is over," she whispers, still having a hard time believing it is true. She cannot help but huff a tiny laugh, breathless and full of wonderment. "Frodo did it."

"Frodo did it," Faramir echoes, his voice just as low and marveling. They have not spoken of Frodo save obliquely, in Faramir's case from fear that doing so might endanger him, that a spy of the Enemy might somehow learn of this most desperate, most secret plan, so wholly unexpected and impossible. He suspected she knew, and she must have suspected the same of him, but any attempt to draw near the subject he has steered away for that reason.

But now he laughs, a loud, ringing sound of triumph, and he picks Éowyn up by the waist and lifts her, swinging her around in wild delight. "Frodo and Sam did it! All is won, all is blessed, all!"

He would kiss her then, in this feeling of raucous, overwhelming relief, this sense that all dark is banished forever, he would kiss her and accept any consequences that came from it. But there is another shout from nearby, and they turn to see Merry running towards them, whooping and throwing a cushion in the air. Everyone who was in the Houses and able to is coming outside, to see the sun and join in the singing.

Éowyn gasps in surprise when Faramir suddenly snatches her by the waist and lifts her, instinctively wrapping her arms -- trying to mind the broken one -- about his neck and shoulders for support. Surprise gives way to her own laughter only a beat later, not only for the wonderment of this victory over Mordor, this new beginning, but also in reaction to Faramir's utter joy. She smiles warmly at him once he returns her to her feet, gratified to see him so happy; he deserves to wear such expression of joy and contentment always. They are still holding each other, she realizes, when Merry's voice rings out and breaks the spell. Éowyn laughs softly and kneels, accepting and gladly returning an enthusiastic hug from the hobbit-- Merry's more moderate nature set aside in favor of elation.

The gardens fill up with folk in the hobbit's wake, healers and patients alike, all caught up in the mood of revelry that begins to well up, singing and wondering; the end of the war. For so long they have all fought, it seems, that to finally have their Enemy fall feels now akin to a dream. There are tears on many a face, of joy and relief, or in remembrance of those claimed by this war. Éowyn wipes lingering moisture off her own face, smiling and exchanging words and agreements over myriad of is it not a wonder, my lady? thrown her way-- many are similarly eager to claim Faramir's attention. And so it goes for what seems like the longest time, until finally there is a call to luncheon-- a somewhat finer feast as what could be arranged on short notice to celebrate.

Faramir's unbounded delight is only increased by seeing Éowyn, for the first time since he has known her, with a warm, bright, lingering smile. There are times throughout the coming hours when she has tears in his eyes, as do most. Faramir, sometimes to his surprise, does not, not even of gladness or relief, but he considers none of these tears an evil. They have all borne so much, and it is a great weight that has been lifted.

What he is, without really being aware of it, is a blur of motion. He moves from one person to another, all energy now, his exhaustion entirely forgotten. He still keeps close to Eowyn but it as though he is on a tether, circling around but always returning. Whenever someone calls one or the other of them away it is not long before the drift back to each other's side. He need not even think of it, for it happens as automatically as breathing, and often their hands find each other, clasping and holding in silent joy.

When they are called to lunch there is more and better food than there has been, for the city has been on siege rations, and someone has decided that this victory means it is safe to be more extravagent. This can only have been Hurin, Faramir knows, and expects the man to show up within the hour at the latest--actually he is surprised not to have been called for already, and his mind is a whirl of plans, arrangements, so much to organize...someone asks him when he will take up his authority in the city. "Tomorrow," he answers at once, not needing to think about it. It must be tomorrow. He glances at the Warden, eyebrow raised as though daring the man to challenge this.

But the Warden can see the change that the day's tidings have wrought in his patient, and gives his blessing. Later he will caution Faramir to check in with him every few days, to make sure that his recovery is total, and so that he might make sure his Steward is resting enough and not letting his work overload him.

He is sitting next to Éowyn during all this, with Merry on her other side, and their corner all abuzz with talk of the king's return. There is some anxiety, for though the Eagle spoke of the King's success and survival nothing more is known, no one has any news of the fates of any other loved ones, and it is not long before that lack of certainty begins to grate. Merry claims much of Eowyn's with worry over his cousin and friends. Faramir's thoughts too turn more grave, for even though the battle is won, he knows one of the first things to happen will be that the wounded will be sent here, to Houses already stretched and overburdened...he will need to meet more professionally with the Warden, to discover what is needed...

As predicted Hurin arrives before the meal is finished, looking for his Steward and anxious to make arrangements. Faramir gives his apologies to all, briefly and surreptitiously taking Éowyn's hand under the table once more and squeezing it before he gets up, smiling at her reassuringly but with a mind half-absent.

He remains closeted with Hurin for many hours, and more than a few clerks are summoned to his chambers and sent running with instructions and orders to deliver.

It is evening before he has the leisure to look for Éowyn once more. There are still sounds of celebration all through the city, singing and merriment and sometimes the ringing of bells, and he smiles as he hears it, begruding the time it takes to find the White Lady of Rohan less than he otherwise might.

The minutes, hours-- however long that follows pass by as if in waking dream, Éowyn still having some trouble comprehending it all. She did not wish for doom, at least these past few days, but a large part of her had been prepared for the possibility. And now? Now, she hardly knows what to think. Not all is joy for their victory, for uncertainty still weighs on her. The world has not been undone and the folk with it, and now the time will come to rebuild and begin anew. But she is still no more certain of her own place in this new order of things than she had been days prior in the tumult of war.

Unbidden, her gaze finds Faramir in the crowd, watching his noble profile as he speaks with those vying for a moment of his time; recalling keenly the feel of his lips against her brow. I would not have this world end now. Nor lose so soon what I have found. She's almost glad Ioreth interrupts that line of thought, pulling all of Éowyn's attention onto her downright dramatic elation.

At lunch, Merry's anxiety compounds her own, though she does her best to be a supportive friend. All she can truly think of just then is, what of Éomer? What of her brother? If he was slain in battle... what would that mean; beyond a wound in her soul that would never heal? The thought of being the last of the house of Eorl nearly puts her off her lunch entirely, what little she can eat from her churning emotions to begin with. She mustn't think that. Not even as a dark possibility.

She forces a smallest of smiles in return to his before Faramir leaves, the warmth of his hand lingering on hers.

The rest of the day passes by slowly. Much as Éowyn wishes she could join in the revelry in full, her heart's unease won't let her. Thankfully even now, there is work to be done; she assists however she can in getting the infirmary ready for the wounded the Houses are bound to receive in the days to come, not shirking even the most menial of tasks. It all helps to keep her busy. Eventually, there is no more to be done for her, and after supper and getting the bandages of her arm changed, she takes to the gardens once more, empty of excess folk now. It is peaceful, the sounds of elation and joy carrying with the light wind.

There is suddenly an awareness within her she could not, she realizes, ever mistake for anything but Faramir's presence, even before she hears soft footfalls. She turns her head a little where she's seated on a bench to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye.

"Barely half a day has gone by since the tidings came-- and you are busy already, my lord Steward." A tiny smile is on her lips, her tone non-accusatory. She understands better than most the demands of his station.

Faramir too smiles as he approaches, his expression amused rather than rueful. "I am indeed," he agrees, taking a seat next to her on the stone bench. "And like to remain so. Gondor has not seen a coronation in generations; we scarely know how to begin. I fear if I start listing all the things that must be done, the list alone would fill all the hours between now and dawn!"

He sighs a little and leans back, looking up at the stars overhead. "And yet I welcome it. And the duties of the Steward may not be mine for so very long, after all, once the king is on his throne."

He has never sounded so lighthearted, and looks less careworn than he ever has, the lines on his face smoothed out by joy and relief.

Éowyn gives him a sideways glance, her expression hinting at some sympathy. Stewardship of the city is a responsibility Faramir never asked for, never expected would fall upon him; it is clear to her his feelings on it are conflicting, especially in light of just how this duty came to be his. She thinks he may be the one person most looking forward to Lord Aragorn claiming the throne.

He looks younger, all of the sudden, the cares that have weighed so heavily on his shoulders lifted for now. Younger-- and beautiful, the fading light of dusk playing upon his features. She turns her gaze away, to track from the familiar garden paths up to the first stars beginning to twinkle down at them, dotted across Elbereth's canvas.

"How do you think your folk shall receive the new king? Rightful heir or no, he is an unknown ranger to Minas Tirith, whereas all know and respect you." She cannot imagine it will be a completely unopposed transition, even if most would welcome the return of the king to Gondor.

He grimaces very faintly, shrugging. "It will be a mix, I believe. Most will be ready and willing to welcome him, for he is as a figure out of legend to them, the more as he will seem to have been the architect of Sauron's destruction, even should the full truth be known. There are many among the nobles who will be less quick to accept, but I think they will have little choice--and in truth I intend to allow them very little leeway to contest it. The more so as the only means by which they might legitimately protest would be in retaining me as the Steward, and I will make it very clear I am not to be thus used."

There is no question where Faramir's loyalty lies, in this. There never was. He stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing one atop the other. The fact that he will not be easily led alone will cause consternation, for there are many in Gondor's councils who have seen only the face he showed there, quiet and unassuming and obedient to the will of his father, the precedent of his brother. None who ever served him in the field would be thus ignorant, but finding that Faramir has a will of his own, and that it is as adamantine as Denethor's ever was in some respects, will take no few people by surprise. He does not look forward to those inevitable clashes, but they must be done.

He sighs a little, closing his eyes. "A further complication is that Aragorn is not unknown in Minas Tirith after all, I have been informed. Long ago he was here under another name, and served my grandfather--and won a decisive victory and great reknown in so doing. That will both aid and hinder him, I suspect, between those who remember and laud his accomplishments from the time and those who will deem actions done under an assumed name to be suspicious. I forsee a great deal of political manuevering ahead. At least it will be to a worthy end."

And so very, very preferable to the alternatives, where he might now be leading a complete evacuation of the city, striving to get the few survivors as far away as possible, that the race of Men might live a while longer...even if only a while.

He turns his head and looks at her. "But you look troubled, Éowyn. Do you fear for your brother? For I am sure he lives. It is true I have no proof of it, but still I am certain."

Faramir's response is much as Éowyn had imagined and anticipated. His insistence garners a small smile from her. She does not doubt Faramir's strength of will or character, and those foolish enough to do so would learn the error of their ways soon. But when he continues, Éowyn is taken aback slightly by surprise; she recalls well her own astonishment over learning Aragorn's true age, the gift of his Numenorean heritage.

"He spoke little of it; having served for a while in the Mark also, under my grandfather. I had not realized he made his way here as well, though it makes sense." She can well see how that might be an issue now, how such could be perceived in two ways by Gondor's nobles and councilors-- she too shares Faramir's concern about prolonged negotiations and political machinations.

This talk had distracted her some from her own worries, but now they come back to the forefront of her mind at the well-meant question.

"Yes," she admits frankly, sighing slightly. "And everyone else, but chiefly my brother. For I do not much care to think on what will happen if he has fallen like my uncle. Not easily would he succumb, but..." But this was no ordinary circumstance, no regular foe. "I hope very much that your intuition proves correct."

"You will know for certain soon enough." He reaches for her hand, as they have done so often this day--these past few days. "Two days I would give it, at the most, before we will have riders reaching us with tidings from the Captains. It will take much longer for the armies as a whole to return, but news at least we will have soon. I have already sent messengers with fresh horses to intercept them, that word might be passed between us more swiftly. And from what I have heard of Éomer King, he will not only have survived, but made his foes pay dearly for being so foolish as to stand before him!"

Her fingers curve lightly about his when he takes her hand, barely even registering the entire gesture-- so natural it has become of late, especially. She breathes a soft chuckle at Faramir's characterization of Éomer, smiling slightly at the accuracy of it.

"Two days," she repeats on a huffed exhale, adding a little wistfully. "So close, yet so far away!"

He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, an unconscious, soothing gesture. "It will pass quickly. The more so if you intend to continue assisting the healers--they have much to prepare, and I do not doubt will be in great need of extra hands, for any number of purposes."

He turns his head and looks at her. "This will be my last night in these Houses. The Warden has given me leave to depart." He hesitates a little. "For all that I strained at the bit during the first few days, I now find I am reluctant to go. For many reasons." He laughs a little, that faint rueful note returning. "My own dismay at how much work lies ahead of me not least!"

"Yes," she says quietly by way of agreement; to all of his points, really. She sits still when Faramir goes on, trying to keep her expression even. I now find I am reluctant to go. Perhaps she might guess as to one of those reasons, though the thought serves to add to her disquiet and uncertainty. But, it does not matter now. The city and its folk need their Steward.

"There is much work to be done, for certain-- I think even the Warden had to concede to the fact." She pauses, glancing at him before adding with a hint of wry amusement, "Though I daresay being freed from the Houses does not keep you safe from the dreaded willowbark tea. I should not be surprised if you find that intrepid apprentice behind your door soon enough with regards from the Warden."

He groans, frowning at the thought. "Neither would I be surprised, though still I will hope otherwise! At least there will be none to stand over me demanding I drink every drop of the wretched stuff."

A brief, suddenly wistful look flits across his face, and he looks at her again more seriously. "But I had meant to ask after yourself, Éowyn. Would you prefer to remove to the Citadel, to remain there as a most honoured guest, until your brother calls for you or returns himself? The Warden has not yet released you, it is true, and you have been finding work here, but..."

The sentence trails off, left unfinished. His hand is still holding hers, and he looks down at them, for once struggling to find words.

Ah.

Éowyn also avoids Faramir's gaze by glancing down at their hands in the wake of the question. She is not surprised her (quite intentional) attempt to steer the conversation onto lighter, less personal topics only works for so long. The question itself... well, it is anything but simple, and she can think of arguments on behalf and against it equally. It is a perfectly honorable, reasonable request. But the way he trails off, though, hesitant like she has never heard him before-- she thinks she knows his hopes. But she is not certain she can grant them in this instance, in this moment. She squeezes his hand gently.

"I thank you for the offer. As you know only too well--" Her lips curve into a briefest of wry smiles here, at her own expense. "I wanted little more than to be released from here upon our first meeting." She falls silent, for a moment. "But as you say, the Warden has not given his agreement. And... I could make myself useful aiding the healers in the meanwhile, however I may. Perhaps this ought to be my place, for the time being."

Faramir nods briefly, his expression resigned, but accepts this. He had not spoken to the Warden, but had hoped...they have done so well in each other's company, he thought it possible the Warden might agree.

Done so well in each other's company...what an understatement. He takes a deep breath, gathering his nerve. "Then be it so. And yet, Éowyn--" He is still looking at their hands, and rubs his thumb gently on her skin. "The stroke we awaited has fallen, and it was not one of doom but of great joy and gladness. I spoke earlier of the fear and doubt of these dark times, but I spoke too of another joy--that of seeing you. Now that all darkness is banished I would speak further."

Éowyn stills, a sensation akin to cold fingertips brushing down her spine at the realization of what he speaks; what he wishes to ask, perhaps. She knows what it is, and suddenly her heart begins to hammer. Is all darkness banished? What of her healing-- has she found it, despite no longer desiring to throw away her life on a field of battle? What of Éomer's fate, still without confirmation beyond Faramir's belief and her own hope? These and many more questions collide in her mind, and sudden doubt throws her thoughts into tumult, a painful knot lodging itself behind her breastbone, tightening her throat and constricting her breath a little.

The last thing on this earth she wishes to do is to hurt Faramir. But she does not think she can bear to hear him out yet, or at the very least offer him any answers or assurances.

"Please, Faramir," she whispers, closing her eyes and squeezing his hand, hoping to somehow lessen the disappointment her response must be. "I know what it is you wish to speak of, I think-- I will not stop you if you truly wish to say your piece, but I beg of you; please do not pursue any answers when I know not whether I have any to give you. Not yet."

Faramir is silent for a long time after she speaks, his eyes now fixed not on their hands but on a place on the stone bench next to where those hands rest. His breathing stays steady and quiet, his expression unreadable, should she look. He does not look at her face.

But their hands are still clasped, and there is some comfort to be found from that, the pressure and warmth of her fingers.

"As you wish," he says finally, his voice low. He squeezes her fingers in return briefly before releasing them--releasing her--and standing. He walks a few steps forward, looking East. The stars are bright in the night sky.

He looks out for a few more minutes, then half-turns back towards her, though his gaze remains fixed upwards. "There is to be a...a ceremony, of sorts, tomorrow morning. For my investiture as Steward." An event that, she will already know, is not one he will find comfortable. To say the least. "There will not be many attending, for I have no desire for it to be a spectacle, particularly not with the king to return to his throne so soon. This is a mere formality."

And the more firmly he tells himself that, the easier it will be to stand there and accept his father's ring, and the rod that has been made to replace the one that burned. Or so Faramir hopes. He looks at her sidelong. "Even so, it would...mean much to me, if you could attend. If you will."

/rubs hands in anticipation

yesss, so good

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i think the eagle is supposed to show up a bit later than this, but i don't care tbh

Shhhhhh it's a minor detail though lord knows how we fill the rest of this day.

probably someone will pull faramir away soon bc oshit the king is coming and the city is Not Ready

I think we'll need some timeskips for the next few days, including now.

very soon, definitely...

Not quite yet. He has a few things to talk to her about first.

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we'll pretend that dumb bad cooking part of that scene did not happen

I don't know what you're talking about that part does not exist.

exactly.

suddenly realizing she still hasn't said what she discussed with Elfhelm

she probably won't bring it up unless he asks her...

Hmm. Not sure he'll find a moment tonight.

they'll have opportunities to talk about it later, i'm sure!

Eventually! In the meantime she has to stop him or he'll say it, he's pretty determined.

welp, this is giving me feels...

Wasn't that the plan? ;)